Irons In The Fire

A Paranormal Romance

By Penelope Marzec

© copyright May 2002 Penelope Marzec
Cover art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

Dedicated to my parents, Irene and Ray Kierce,
who taught me all about the magic of love.

* * *

On Fridays the fairies have special power over all things, and chiefly on that day they select and carry off the young mortal girls as brides for the fairy chiefs. But after seven years, when the girls grow old and ugly, they send them back to their kindred, giving them, however, as compensation, a knowledge of herbs and philtres and secret spells, by which they can kill or cure, and have power over men both for good and evil.
Lady Wilde, 1826-1896

Chapter One

The blinding flash of sunlight bouncing off chrome trim caught Britt Jenkins' attention and distracted him from the task at hand. Frowning, he glanced out his kitchen window to see a gray Caprice pull into the Taylors' driveway next door. He hadn't expected Catherine Fiona Mullaney to arrive in a ten-year old sedan with rust holes mottling the finish. He had envisioned her stepping out of a limousine equipped with a properly starched chauffeur. After her father, Ed Mullaney, died a year ago, a collection of his syndicated columns had been published. The book, A Good Argument, still remained on the bestseller list.

Britt continued to stare as Miss Mullaney emerged from the car wearing a neatly tailored suit of gray that clung to a slender frame. In the slanting afternoon rays, her lush fall of hair gleamed like ebony silk. He whistled softly, admiring the fluid motion of her shapely legs. Though her uncle, Mike Taylor, repeatedly sang the praises of his "wee" Catherine, Britt hadn't believed she would look quite that good. He thought his neighbor's niece would be an overindulged dumpling.

Still, guessing her age to be around twenty-two, he had no doubt she behaved like a spoiled child. As if to confirm his suspicions, he saw her give an energetic wave and dash toward the bulkhead where Mike always docked his cabin cruiser.

He rolled his eyes. He already knew she had her uncle wrapped around her little finger. Mike had told Britt of his plans to take her out on the boat and then to one of the most posh restaurants on the water.

Britt turned away from the vision of the delectable Miss Mullaney and resumed the job of stirring the Arctic white paint. Jabbing his stick to the bottom of the paint can, he swirled with furious strokes. The repetitions released only some of his anger. He had worked hard to become a journeyman reporter at the Daily Press, but Catherine Mullaney had had the job handed to her on a silver platter. The editor expected her byline to sell papers--and it would. But the kicker came when the editor had given Britt the job of showing the ropes to Miss Mullaney. And that galled him.

Climbing up the stepladder, with can and brush in tow, Britt surveyed the ceiling. Within an hour he would have it finished. One more room completely renovated in this century old Victorian.

A deep, throaty rumble followed immediately by a shattering explosion shook the back wall of the house. Startled momentarily, Britt paused with the paintbrush in midair before dropping it to hurry down the ladder. Then he heard another sound, a splitting crack that could only be the sharp report of a rifle. Dashing to the back windows of his house, the ones that faced the channel, he gazed on a scene that transfixed him with horror.

On the opposite side of the channel, near the vast stretches of marsh, a mass of orange flames drifted in the waves. Huge billows of black smoke issued from the consuming blaze. Britt grabbed the binoculars that hung on the back door and peered at the fire. His gut churned as he spotted the gleaming gold figurehead of the Cliona, Mike Taylor's cabin cruiser, licked by the hungry tongues of fire.

Praying that Mike had jumped overboard before the flames touched him, Britt sprang into action. He grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers to report the disaster. His heart thundered while he relayed the information, hoping it wasn't too late.

Then he heard a scream. Dropping the phone, Britt ran out the door as another ungodly shriek rent the air. He rushed to the edge of the bulkhead and his first face-to-face meeting with Miss Mullaney. She hung by the tips of her fingers to the floating dock, now bobbing vertically in the water.

His blood ran cold as he saw that one of the chains holding the float to the massive timbers had snapped. The sound of groaning wood made the inevitable crystal clear. The float's remaining chain, stressed to the limit, looked about to snap any second.

Catherine didn't think she could hold on much longer. Her arms ached, and her hands started to go numb. Then, just as her fingers slipped down another inch, an angel of mercy appeared at the top of the bulkhead. Except, the stranger didn't look like an angel. He looked more like Satan with wild black hair and eyes that reflected the hellish fires of her uncle's flaming boat.

"I can't swim!" she called out. "Please, help me!" The extra weight of her sodden wool suit threatened to drag her down. She kicked off her shoes.

Her heart lifted for a moment when the man responded to her plea. He scooped up a red life preserver hanging by the edge of the bulkhead and swung it out to her. When the life preserver whizzed past her, she groaned in despair. Her strength drained to the limit, she doubted she could catch it. She didn't have much energy left. If she let go of the float and missed the life preserver she would be swallowed up by the cruel water already numbing her legs.

"Dammit! Grab it before some shark comes along and chews off your feet," the man barked.

Fresh panic, along with his angry curse, gave Catherine the needed impetus to try and seize the life preserver as it swung past her again. With a prayer on her lips, she reached out and her left arm shot through the center of the circle. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and released her right hand's hold on the float.

Her stomach lurched as the line jerked. She held her breath in terror. Would the man be able to haul her out of the water?

When she heard a loud metallic twang, her eyes sprang open. What she saw turned her insides to ice. The last chain holding the float had broken. Freed from its tether, the wooden dock bobbed back into a horizontal position, twirled in the dancing current and headed out into open water. Her arms tightened around the bright circle of Styrofoam. If she hadn't grabbed it, she would have fallen off the dock into the turbulent, deep channel and drowned. She shuddered.

"Hang on!" The man shouted.

She heard him grunt and then felt herself yanked upward. Her body slammed into the tarred timbers of the bulkhead with such force that she nearly lost her grip.

Blessedly, his strong hands reached down to lift her up and over the top of the wooden wall. He settled her on a patch of new spring grass. Catherine sank into the cushion of green, burying her head in her hands as the horror overwhelmed her. She gagged and emptied her stomach.

Her rescuer crouched down beside her, brushing back the wet strands of her long, black hair.

"Are you all right?" His voice sounded harsh.

She could not answer him. She fought to control her heaving insides. The vivid reality of the explosion had been much worse than the vision she had received two weeks ago. She had told Uncle Mike not to take out the boat. Why hadn't he listened to her warning? She closed her eyes, wishing she could block out the scene she had just witnessed.

"Did Mike get off the boat? Did you see what happened?"

The hand on her shoulder held a warmth that made her wish she could draw closer and chase away the bleak desolation settling on her. She struggled to speak, willing herself to hold back the flood of grief.

"Uncle Mike is...dead." What good were the visions that haunted her? She never could prevent the accidents that followed.

"No! He must have jumped!" Behind the denial, fury punctuated the man's words.

Catherine shivered as she pushed herself off the ground. She lifted her gaze and stated as evenly as she could manage, "I saw everything. I went down to the float, called and waved to Uncle Mike. He saw me, waved back, and swung the boat around to head back to the dock. Then the boat...and Uncle M-mike..." She bit her lip and tried to hold back the tears.

Britt found himself momentarily transfixed by her startling blue eyes. The soft color reminded him of the hazy horizon where the sea meets the sky. Heart pounding, he blinked hard and directed his gaze down the length of her shapely form until he noticed her bare feet.

"You lost your shoes."

"I-I kicked them off." She covered her eyes with her hand.

He reached out to her then, gathering her against him. It was simply an automatic response, but as she melted against him, his own body's reaction stunned him. He didn't want to comfort her, he wanted...

A police car pulled into the driveway, wheels spitting up gravel. Britt snapped back to reality.

"You can't stay here. Put your arms around my neck. You'll hurt your feet on those stones if you try to walk on them." He scooped her off the ground. She offered no protest, snuggling like a child in his arms. Her soft, quivering body pressed closely against his own sent his blood rushing through his veins.

"You should get out of those wet clothes," he grumbled before clenching his teeth against his visceral response to the way her curves melded to his chest. Reaching the Taylors' back door, he kicked it open and stepped inside the kitchen. He set her on her feet and steadied her as she swayed dizzily for a moment.

She stared up at him and fixed him with her wide, round gaze. "Um--thanks."

Damn. She had such a sweet, feminine voice. The musical lilt that had a fascinating quality to it--a clear, bell tone that hinted of innocence. He wanted to stay and listen to her.

He tried to shake that thought right out of his head. He had a job to do. "Look, I have a boat. I'm going to help the police search. Is your aunt home?"

She gave a little shrug to her shoulder and he saw a tear glistening in the corner of her eye. He found his resolve floundering.

He started to run his fingers through his hair, then noticed that his hand still had wet, white paint on it. He glanced at Catherine's suit. His white palm prints stood stark against the dark gray fabric--on her shoulder, near her breast, and around her thigh. Evidence for all the world to see. What had gotten into him? Shock. It had to be that. Except that he wasn't cold, not the least bit.

Double damn. He turned to the sink and scrubbed away the paint on his hands, blowing out a gust of air and grumbling. "Looks like I messed up your suit. Sorry."

"It doesn't matter." She stood by the window. Police sirens wailed and flashing lights pulsed.

He wiped his hands and went to stand beside her. A whole army of police had descended on the scene. This was news. Big news. Even though Mike had been his neighbor and a friend, Britt knew he better get out there and cover this story.

Then he saw her unrolling a small piece of paper.

"T-this is M-mike's handwriting," Catherine stuttered in apparent confusion. "There's dates and times..."

Britt snatched the paper out of her hands. His fingers shook as he stared at Mike's scrawl on the paper. "Where'd you find this?"

"It was under the b-boards of the f-float," she explained.

He frowned at her. Her face had a pasty look and a touch of fear shot through him. Would she pass out? It felt unusually cold in the house, and she was wet.

"I-it's getting kind of dark in here," she whispered. "Sort of gray. Do you see it?"

He grabbed her arm. "Don't get hysterical on me, Mullaney. Calm down. Tell me exactly where you found this paper."

Her shoulders sagged. Damn again. He wished he had exercised more control over his tongue. The girl had looked death in the face--the death of her uncle, and if she fainted, he wouldn't know what to do with her. He might get a better response if he doled out a little sympathy.

He grabbed the three dishtowels hanging on a rack by the sink. "Look, I'll dry you off first." He handed her one towel. Then he used the other two to briskly rub down her hair. Turning her to face him, he dabbed at her forehead and her cheeks. He slid one towel around her neck and drew her up close to him.

"Is that better?" Absently, he caressed her back in a broad circle with the other towel. That was a mistake.

She nodded, leaned against him, and closed her eyes.

His heart pounded in a new rhythm and a flood of warmth flowed through him--and something else that surprised him--a yearning that made him want to forget everything else except the woman in his arms.

She murmured against his chest, "You have to understand--I knew the note would be there."

The note! Britt glanced around and saw it next to the sink. He snatched it up. The paper rustled as he stuffed it into the pocket of his overalls.

"You can't keep that. I need it. It's important." She pulled back a bit and frowned up at him. Her eyes sparked an electric blue.

"And why it so important?" He had no intention of giving it to her.

He saw her eyes narrow and her exquisite small mouth draw down. He realized that she was even prettier when annoyed. Entranced watching her expression, he didn't anticipate getting the wind knocked out of him when she shoved him away from her.

"I know it's important because I'm psychic." Her flat tone neither boasted nor apologized.

A sudden burst of anger flared up in him and he knew he could not stop the scorching mockery in his voice. "So tell me--what am I thinking?"

He noticed the flush creep up her neck.

"I don't read minds." Her chin raised up in obvious defiance. "Or, at least, I can't always break through the barrier. I don't like to know what goes on inside other peoples' heads."

Then the blue sparks starting firing at him again.

"But you--you Neanderthal--"

"Hey!" He stepped back when she pointed her finger at him.

Her heard her sniffle and take in a ragged breath. She wrapped her arms around herself. Something inside him softened.

All right. He hadn't exactly been using his manners, though he felt shook up, too. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs.

"Why don't you sit down?" he offered.

She sank into the chair with a grateful sigh.

"You see…I had a vision."

"A vision!" he spat out. He completely forgot about etiquette. "All right, why don't we sit down right now and hold a little séance so I can talk to Mike and see how he likes the other side?"

She blinked her eyes and stiffened.

"I don't do seances. I just get visions--sometimes--warnings. And I saw…I saw the boat burning. I warned my uncle, but he told me he would be careful."

Britt found himself struggling to keep his indignation from fading away like a wispy illusion. Sure as hell, her voice had a haunting effect on him. He tried to focus on her explanation.

"I saw a bomb on the boat and that little slip of paper. I know he was murdered."

"Murdered?" Shock washed through him momentarily, but then got himself back under control. "Don't you ever mention your psychic nonsense to me again! If you think Mike has been murdered, you prove it--with facts. That man was a good friend to me." He broke off his furious words as his clenched hands started to tremble. Before his emotion got the better of him, he spun around and left the kitchen, banging the door as he went out.

Why did it always have to be the same, Catherine thought as she watched him leave. Why didn't anyone ever believe her? Her heart ached and a lone tear escaped to slide down her cheek. She was all alone now. Truly alone. Uncle Mike was all the family she'd had left. Aunt Evelyn had always made it abundantly clear that Catherine was not a blood relation. And Drew, Uncle Mike's stepson, had always looked on her with disdain.

Her gaze darted from shadow to shadow in Mike's old house, and the chill came back into her bones. She lifted the Celtic cross from beneath her blouse and clutched it while her lips formed the words of a prayer for protection. She had loved Uncle Mike as dearly as her own father. But she had no desire to meet now with his filmy spirit.

* * *

Several hours later, Britt sat in a chair at the Gull Haven police station, gulping down a cup of the most disgusting coffee he had ever tasted. With the bitter taste blistering his throat, he flipped through his notes.

All indications so far led the police to conclude that the explosion had been an accident. Accidents happened. Boats blew up because gasoline fumes built up. Boaters had to be careful--many were not. Every year at least one tragedy appeared on the front page of the Daily Press.

Britt crumpled the Styrofoam cup and pitched it into a trashcan. No. Mike was too careful. That boat had been Mike's baby. Anyway, his cruiser had a special device to detect fumes. No doubt his niece knew that, too.

Psychic. The very word made him grit his teeth. Fakes, the lot of them. Visions, seances, crystal balls, and Tarot cards. He'd seen it all. His mother had fallen under the spell of a psychic claiming to receive messages from Britt's long dead father. Believing that other world to be a better place, his mother committed suicide.

Britt had exacted his revenge by doing an investigative report exposing the greedy mediums who prey on the sorrow-stricken. The report won the New Jersey Press Association's award for Public Service. But the raw hurt still festered. To Britt, anyone claiming to predict the future or contact souls on the other side deserved to be prosecuted as a thief.

Yet he'd been given the responsibility for guiding Catherine Mullaney along in the newspaper business. Making sure she included who, what, when, where, why, and how in every story. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. What a mess a psychic would make out of an obituary column.

If she goofed, the editor would blame Britt. With her well-known name, she could do no wrong. As long as she could put two words together, she had it made. Damn.

Britt stood up and stretched. What was taking that detective so long in getting a statement from Miss Mullaney? He started pacing. Hell, he knew the answer. What would any man do if he had the undivided attention of such a gorgeous young woman?

He stopped pacing and glared at the door to the interrogation room. No. He knew Detective Jamison. The guy only had a year to go before retirement. Catherine was young enough to be Jamison's daughter. And she wasn't gorgeous. At least, he tried to convince himself of that. But it didn't work.

She reminded him of a mermaid. He easily envisioned her sitting on a sandbar in the channel and combing down that long black hair, singing a melancholy song and enticing sailors to their doom. She had an otherworldly quality to her. But psychic? No way. She had listened to her uncle's fairy tales for too long.

Mike had often lapsed into nonsense about fairies, leprechauns, and superstitions. His boat, the Cliona, had been named after some Irish goddess. Come to think of it, Mike had recently compared Catherine to the same goddess.

Britt remembered how it felt to hold her, and his blood started to race. Then his brows furrowed. Had Mike told her about him? Was she, even now, trying to worm her way into his good graces? Hypnotize him with that sugary voice of hers? He clenched his fists. He would not make it easy for her. She would have to pull her own weight at the Daily Press. She better do it right the first time--every time. Damn. He hoped she could at least spell.

Chapter Two

Catherine wrinkled her nose. All police stations smelled the same, a mixture of rancid coffee, cigarette smoke, ancient dust, and sweat. The table in front of her sighed with despair when she leaned on it. Tears of anguish and anger had been smeared on the laminated surface by hundreds of people. If she put out her hand, she could touch the stories. But she did not want to learn of someone else's sorrow. The pain of others would not remove the hollow ache inside her.

The police had taken a statement from her rescuer, too. She'd been surprised when he came up to her as she walked into the police station and gallantly draped his raincoat over her shoulders. She felt thankful, for beneath the coat her wool suit remained sticky and damp. The commodious coat kept sliding, however, and as she tugged at the lapels to wrap it more tightly about her, she caught a whiff of tangy cologne. The bracing scent reminded her of the imposing presence of the coat's owner and she almost wished him beside her so she could lean on his strong arm.

She simply couldn't hold up her head any longer. She put her elbows on the table and cradled her head in her hands. Detective Jamison wasn't finished with her. She wondered how much longer she could endure his interminable questioning.

"Your uncle was a well-respected member of this community with a reputation as an honest, reliable realtor. Everybody liked him." The detective's pencil beat out a staccato rhythm on the table. "You've got to give me a motive if you think he was murdered."

Catherine dragged her head from the table and gave him a slight nod. She didn't have a motive. She didn't have a single shred of evidence--except for that little scrap of paper she'd found on the float which was now in the possession of the man who had saved her from a watery grave. Grateful that he'd had the brawn to haul her up; she couldn't prevent a shiver running through her as she remembered the agony of hanging by her fingertips on that float.

"Uncle Mike told me someone had been stalking him," she lied as she sniffed and then added a dry sob, hoping it made her statement seem more convincing. She couldn't tell him she'd had a vision. The detective was a cop after all, and she knew enough about the breed.

"Someone stalking him?" the detective grunted. He narrowed his eyes. "He should have called us. Did he give you a description of this stalker?"

"He didn't get a good look at the guy, of course. Medium build, I believe he said." That, she decided, should cover just about everybody.

"Give me the dates and times for each incident," the detective grumbled. He stopped using the pencil as a drumstick and held it expectantly over the clipboard.

"I can't remember them all." Catherine slumped further down in her chair. Rid of the annoying rapping of the detective's pencil on the table, she longed to close her eyes and go to sleep. Weariness encircled her, tempting her to seek a sweet respite in slumber.

The detective cleared his throat impatiently. Catherine's mind clicked on again. "Oh. But there is something else. That fellow with the paint splattered all over him--he has a list of all the dates and times."

"You mean Jenkins?"

She nodded. So that was her rescuer's name. In all the turmoil, she hadn't thought to ask him.

The detective got up from the table and went out into the hall. She heard him call for Jenkins. She heard Jenkins answer with his rumbling bass. Then his voice began to fade as exhaustion overwhelmed her. Her lids drooped and she settled her head back down on her arms.

"White paint," she murmured. "On my suit...he's sorry..." She drifted off into a dream, carried in the arms of her paint-splattered rescuer. She remembered the feel of his hard shoulders, his solid chest, and the magic of his fingers caressing her back. Wherever he had touched her, she had felt a glowing heat. Held by him and sheltered in his care, she had felt safe. Until today, her uncle had been her bulwark in stormy times.

In her own quiet dream world, she looked up into Jenkins' eyes and found they no longer reflected the vicious blaze. His eyes were a deep gray, the same as an angry ocean or a threatening thundercloud. Then, behind him, the sky turned black. The wind began to moan and a sharp chill prickled along Catherine's skin. The numbness began to swallow her up.

"No!" she cried. A vision swept over her, startling in clarity. She felt herself pulled and yanked from the arms that had offered her security. She slipped away from him, unable to hold on to her protector. The strong hands that had hauled her up to the bulkhead were now lifeless. She clutched at his clothing, but she couldn't grab the wet cloth that clung to his skin.

Dragged further and further into the darkness, she kicked wildly and screamed. She had to escape.

Britt and the detective stopped arguing, startled by Catherine's shriek. A chill shot up Britt's spine. He rushed into the adjoining room where she slept at the table, her head burrowed in her arms.

"Wake up! Hey, it's only a dream." He touched her shoulder and gave her a little shake. Her shoulder stiffened under his hand. Slowly, she lifted up her head, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights.

Tears stained her face. Britt pulled his handkerchief out and thrust it in front of her. "Here, dry your eyes."

She brushed the handkerchief aside and stared at him. His heart started pounding faster. Those damned blue eyes of hers were big enough to drown in. Big enough to make Britt forget whom she was, for a moment.

"Stop staring like that," he growled. He pressed the handkerchief into her hand, but she clutched his fingers instead. He could swear a lightning bolt shot up his arm as she drew his hand toward her cheek and cradled it there tenderly. Stunned, Britt felt his body responding to her gentle caress.

"Do me a favor and take her home, Jenkins, and maybe I won't prosecute you for stealing evidence--unless that piece of paper isn't on my desk tomorrow." Detective Jamison stood at the door of the room and snapped his pencil in half.

Britt pressed his lips tightly together and tugged his hand out of Catherine's grasp. She had told Jamison about that paper. Couldn't she figure out that the times listed on that paper scrap indicated some strange goings-on? Why would Mike be out on his cruiser at 2 a.m.? Especially since Mike never did any fishing? She put her own uncle's reputation in jeopardy.

"All right--let's go Mullaney." He didn't try to hide the undercurrent of anger in his tone.

She gave a ragged sigh and took a swipe at her damp cheeks with his handkerchief. As she rose to her feet, she swayed unsteadily.

Britt caught her elbow, noticing a pallor in her face that didn't come from the fluorescent glare.

"I guess I forgot to eat," she explained weakly.

Great, Britt thought. And when she failed to arrive on Monday morning at the Daily Press, the editor would start throwing things--most likely in Britt's direction.

The only establishments open at this hour in Gull Haven weren't places to take a lady. The Taylors' refrigerator contained pricey spring water but little else since they usually ate out. That left one option.

"I'll zap a pizza at my place for you," Britt offered.

She turned those big eyes on him and snatched up his hand again--this time with both of her own. "I don't know what I would have done without you today. I don't know how I can ever repay you."

If she hadn't touched him, he probably would have told her that the best way she could repay him would be to go and work for another newspaper. But she ignited a powerful need in him. Either that or he had buried himself in working on his house for too long when he should have been out getting back into the dating game.

He tore his gaze away from the blue fire in her eyes that mesmerized him. "You don't owe me anything."

Jenkins' sports car had a stick shift, a clutch, and very little room. When he shifted gears, his hand brushed Catherine's thigh and set off a tremor inside her. She edged closer to the door of the sleek vehicle and sought to blot out the image of the vision she had just endured.

Eliminating the illusion wasn't as difficult as she thought it would be. The engine roared and the strong, callused hand on the gearshift slid along her thigh again, creating another earthquake in Catherine's system. She swallowed hard and pressed herself against the door.

Turning to gaze out of the window as they sped along Main Street, she recognized the small business district of Gull Haven. A crowd had gathered on the street outside of one of the pubs. As the car cruised past, a fight broke out on the sidewalk. Catherine flinched when one drunken man slammed another with his fist.

"Did you see that?" she gasped.

"Yeah. Another fight at the 'Happy Sailor.' That's a nightly ritual."

She frowned at his lack of concern. With the light from passing street lamps, she noticed a grim set to his mouth. She supposed exhaustion weighed as heavily on him as it did on her but she didn't doubt that he was furious with her as well. She had told the detective about that slip of paper. While she didn't regret it because she knew her uncle's scrawl contained an important clue, she didn't enjoy causing a rift between them. He had, after all, saved her life.

The car rolled by another pub that had at least twenty motorcycles parked outside. Catherine knew the nightlife in Gull Haven left a lot to be desired. If any residents of Gull Haven wished for something more cultured than beer and pretzels for an evening out, they went to Rivershire, over the bridge on the mainland.

They left the business district behind and headed north. The rest of Gull Haven was quiet. Too quiet. With the solid rock wall on the right, dark houses on the left, and her mysterious, unpredictable companion, a great sense of loneliness crept over her.

The Taylors' brooding gothic came into view and served only to make Catherine more uneasy. The thought of staying in that house by herself gave her the creeps.

"So where's your aunt?"

Catherine started at the curt tone. She hadn't expected him to talk at all. He turned the car into his driveway.

"I don't know. At some spa, somewhere, I think. We don't--I mean, we've never really been close." A deep stab of pain shot through her heart. The loss of her uncle could only make the situation with her aunt worse.

"What about Mike's stepson, Drew?"

"He had a sailing race this weekend in Maryland." Catherine's throat tightened. Drew had always gotten along well with Mike. He would be as devastated as she was at this loss. Although Drew wouldn't be back until tomorrow, perhaps she could share her grief with him and patch up the old animosities.

Her companion stared at her for a minute, his eyes as hot and piercing as a laser. Then he got out of the car.

Catherine slid out and followed him as he stalked into his house. Inside the back door, he flipped the switch to turn on the lights. She covered her eyes, blinded by the harsh gleam. It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust. A bare bulb dangled from the ceiling sending glaring rays bouncing off the stark white ceiling and walls. It had been a long, terrible day and her tongue turned acerbic.

"This reminds me of a blizzard I attended, once," she said.

He stopped pulling the plastic drop cloth off his refrigerator, turning to look at her with a scowl. "You don't like it?"

"It's dazzling." She smiled as she watched him glower. Not only was he egotistical, he was monochromatic.

"Now wait a minute, Mullaney..." he wagged a finger at her.

"You may call me Miss Mullaney or Ms. Mullaney or even Catherine. But I'm not one of your old chums from the pub, Jenkins."

His eyes opened in surprise for a moment and then narrowed threateningly. "I'll call you anything I please." His voice took on a menacing edge.

Catherine rolled her eyes. Where did this fellow come from--the Stone Age? He could keep his pizza. "Look, I'm very grateful that you saved my life today, but I'm totally exhausted. Thanks for offering to feed me, but I can really take care of myself." She didn't feel hungry anyway. She spun around, snagging her foot in the plastic drop cloth.

She let out a startled cry as she pitched toward the floor. With lightning reflexes, he reached out, catching her before she connected with the solid tile. The strong grip of his hands around her shoulders set her heart racing. His face hovered over hers and her knees went weak.

"You are going to sit on my couch and you are going to eat my pizza because I am not going to be responsible for you fainting in my kitchen."

She gulped as he drew her even closer, however, the cold tone in his voice acted like a bracing splash of water, bringing her to her senses.

"I wasn't going to faint. I simply tripped."

"It looked like fainting to me." He searched her face with his scorching gaze. His breath fanned her skin, sending a tingling sensation over her limbs. She decided she really would faint if he came any closer. She closed her eyes as she felt the flush blooming on her cheeks.

He freed one of her arms and passed his hand across her brow. "Are you feverish?"

Terrific. What could she say to him? No, I'm just blushing because you are sending these crazy shivers up and down my spine. She didn't say anything.

"All right. You come on into the living room." He ushered her to the sofa. "Put your feet up--I'll get a blanket. How about a glass of wine?"

She tried to shake off his solicitous hands. "There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine."

"No. You've had a shock. Maybe I should call an ambulance," he muttered.

"Don't! I'm okay!" she protested.

Ignoring her attempt at bravery, he swung her feet up on the couch, covered her with a blanket and handed her a glass of wine. Then he busied himself zapping pizza in his microwave.

She regretted her comment about his kitchen. After a few sips of wine she suggested that it would be perfect if he added some plants and a collection of something--like plates, perhaps, or some old copper molds. She complimented the living room with its gleaming oak floor. After several more sips of wine, she even volunteered to assist him in choosing his furnishings.

He handed her a personal-size pizza and refilled her wineglass, then sat cross-legged on the floor and munched on his own pizza.

"So you think the house has possibilities?" he commented.

"It's a charming place!" she reassured him. "With the right touches it would be a real showpiece."

He shook his head. "Your uncle said the same thing."

His words, though spoken gently, drew her back to the edge of her sorrow and the darkness crept into her soul. For a few minutes she had put all the day's events out of her mind, but now it all came back, weighing her down with grief.

Determined not to cry, she swallowed against the ache in her throat and listened as he proceeded to tell her how her uncle sold him the house, gave him advice on repairs, and bought him a set of tools. Reclining against the pillow, she watched as the softer side of her rescuer took shape. Mesmerized by the sound of his voice, she enjoyed the rich timbre flowing over her. Noticing the words he chose, she decided that he was quite intelligent. And, when he wasn't glaring at her, he presented a rather handsome appearance.

The wine began to have an effect on her. Catherine closed her eyes, just for a minute. She promised herself she wouldn't fall asleep on him. She felt delightfully warm and safe--a warmth she would no longer feel in Aunt Evelyn's house. She wished she didn't have to go back there.

Oblivious to the late hour, she heard her rescuer describe the process of spackling sheet rock and stripping old wood. Her head nodded and she started to dream.

Britt caught the wineglass as it slipped from her nerveless fingers. Nobody could accuse him of not taking care of Catherine Mullaney. She was resting comfortably now. He hoped by Monday morning she would be ready to work.

It would take a while for her to get over her uncle's death, but she would have her aunt to help her with that even if they weren't close. Maybe the tragedy would draw them together.

Thinking of Evelyn Taylor, he shook his head. Nope. Evelyn wasn't the sort of woman you could draw close to. While Mike Taylor had been affable and friendly, his wife, Evelyn, had always been cold and reserved. She looked terrific--slim and toned up--but she had her nose up in the air all the time. And she didn't like journalists. Not at all.

Her son, Drew, however, had taken to Mike. Mike had helped Drew set up his successful sailing school. He and Catherine should be good company for each other.

Britt stood up and gazed down at Catherine, remembering the shock he had received when she held his hand and how good she felt in his arms. He bent down to brush away some loose strands of her hair. His fingers lingered on her cheek, soft, smooth and creamy. Her lips, stained with the wine, beckoned. If he kissed her, would she wake up?

Realizing that his thoughts had strayed into dangerous territory, he straightened and took several giant strides out into the kitchen. He had to be temporarily insane, overtired, overwrought and definitely stressed out. She was pretty and feminine, but she was also Catherine Mullaney, full-fledged reporter, though the ink hadn't dried on her diploma yet. True, he hadn't seen her in action yet, but he suspected she had a lot to learn in the newspaper business--no matter who her father had been.

Britt looked up at the ceiling. He would have to finish painting it tomorrow--after he gave Detective Jamison that scrap of paper. Britt lifted up the drop cloth and put the wineglass in the sink. If Catherine wanted to ruin her uncle's good name what could he do? He thought Mike Taylor was a great guy--but even great guys make mistakes. It wouldn't be surprising if Mike met up with some woman at 2 a.m. anyway. After all, Evelyn had as much warmth in her as dry ice.

An awful inspiration flashed in his mind and sent a suffocating sense of dread winding its way around his heart. What if Evelyn found out about Mike's secret rendezvous? Would she seek revenge? Was she capable of committing murder?

Britt's derisive chuckle rose up to echo on the freshly painted walls. What a ridiculous idea. Evelyn wouldn't want to chip her fingernail polish.

As his laughter died away, a frightening idea swirled around in his head, looming larger as he realized that it had distinct possibilities. Evelyn would hire someone. Britt's mouth went dry. Yes.

Chapter Three

A sailboat horn mourned a deep-throated plea for the bridge to open and Catherine stirred. Sighing, she realized she had gotten through a whole night without a single vision. She wanted to keep her eyes closed and linger on the edge of sleep a little longer but her blanket had wadded up and pressed painfully into the small of her back.

She stretched and rubbed her eyes. Though she had been spared from viewing the future, her rest had been fitful. She twisted and turned so much, she almost strangled herself with the blankets. It felt like she was on top of her pillow, hard up against the headboard as though a great wave had thrown her there.

Then her hazy thoughts zoomed into focus as she recalled exactly where she had fallen asleep. Her eyes opened wide. She sat bolt upright on the couch with her heart slamming hard against her chest. Unwinding the blanket, she tossed it aside, a wave of relief washing over her when she knew she still wore all her clothes.

Doubt edged in and her breath came in short gasps as she touched the crushed wool and tugged at the skirt that had ridden up around her thighs. Had he touched her? Her gaze traveled to the white palm print on the rumpled gray wool. It gave her a strange thrill as her finger traced the outline of the massive hand. He had touched her there yesterday. She searched for the prints near her breast and on her shoulder. They appeared like flags where he had staked his claim.

Did he have an ulterior motive in inviting her into his house? Splashing wine into her glass and hoping for--

Her cheeks grew hot. No. He had been, if anything, over-solicitous. She frowned. That was the odd thing. One minute, he acted as though he couldn't stand the sight of her and the next he's tucking a blanket around her.

Unpredictable! Moody! She'd had one disastrous romance in college with a temperamental young man and since then she had dated only men she found to be dull, boring and conservative.

Mr. Jenkins could not be described as dull, boring or conservative and yet she had spent the entire night under his roof. Well, hopefully, nobody would ever find out about that. She would thank him for all he had done and get on with her new job. Their paths should never cross again she decided.

She felt her heart sink with her resolution. There could be no denying that her rescuer looked like the latest movie heartthrob, but his volatile behavior made her cringe. A nice, fat, balding banker would suit her better. Someone who would wait patiently by the fire for her while she struggled with editor's deadlines, rushing off to interview the famous and the infamous.

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. Idiot! Why did she bother entertaining such notions? Her busy life would leave no time for socializing, anyway. She intended to make sure that the police did a thorough investigation to find her uncle's killer. Her throat tightened for a moment as she recalled yesterday's horror, but she forced down her grief with a renewed sense of resolve. The murderer must be found.

Snatching up her handbag, she headed out of the house through the kitchen door which creaked on its hinge. She held her breath for a moment, but the house remained silent. Apparently, everything in Mr. Jenkins' house needed to be repaired or replaced. Uncle Mike must have been overjoyed to find someone willing to buy the ramshackle Victorian.

Hurrying to her car, she took her suitcase from the trunk. The massive bulk of the Taylor home loomed ahead of her. Catherine steadied herself as an overwhelming sense of dread swam through her consciousness. Glancing upward, she saw the towering double chimneys belching black smoke. The dark, cedar shake siding reminded her of the scales of a dragon.

Catherine shivered, wishing her imagination wasn't so vivid. The house had always been foreboding but Uncle Mike had brightened the murky corners with his cheerful face. Now that he was gone, it seemed every shadow harbored a specter who peered out at her. And if she listened too closely, the wind made a keening sound as it whirled around the house, like the wail of a banshee.

She gathered the Celtic cross from beneath her blouse and kissed it. The cross had belonged to her mother. It had been Catherine's talisman through trying times.

The sound of a racing engine brought Catherine's head around. The electric blue sports car skidded to a stop and Mr. Jenkins stepped out holding a grocery bag.

"I bought a dozen eggs and some bacon." he stated, a scowl firmly fixed on his forehead. "I hope you can cook."

Male chauvinist to the core. Catherine lowered her head and bit back an acid reply. Taking a deep breath, she brought her gaze up to his again. He was a rugged guy, caveman-type, used to ordering women around--not much on manners. But he had pulled her from what might have been a watery grave.

"I learned young, as a matter of self-preservation."

"Good." He shifted the bag to his other arm. "You can whip us up some breakfast while I finish painting that ceiling." He headed to the kitchen door.

Catherine couldn't help staring at the way his jeans hugged his slim hips. The overalls he wore yesterday had been baggy and revealed little of the man beneath the paint-splattered fabric. Now, however, the faded denim fit him like a second skin. Evidently, his physical labors had molded him into one very fine specimen.

He turned as he stepped inside the door. "Come on, I'm starving."

Catherine flushed, hoping he hadn't noticed where her gaze had been fixed. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart by concentrating on the image of a fat, balding man. Someone very safe and comfortable. Someone whose jeans didn't reveal a physique that made her hands itch to explore it. And someone who didn't order women around with an overbearing, arrogant attitude.

Gulping hard, she opened her eyes, struggling to prevent herself from telling the man exactly what he could do with his eggs and bacon. He had saved her life, after all. Making breakfast for him was a fair exchange. She followed him into the house.

She saw him glaring at her as she entered. He yanked the drop cloth off the stove and the sink in a vicious motion, and set the grocery bag on the drainboard. The muscles rippled along his bare forearms. Her mouth went dry. What a hunk.

"Do you have a fever?"

"No."

"Why are your cheeks so red?"

She touched her hand to her blazing cheek and winced.

"I'm embarrassed--by--by this suit. Look at me. I'm a mess."

She watched his gaze roam up and down her body. She tried to swallow but there wasn't a drop of moisture in her mouth.

He turned his back to her and started taking the groceries out of the bag.

"I'll send that suit to the cleaners. Don't you have something a little less formal to wear?"

She blinked in confusion. "Sure . . .but you just said you're starving."

"I am!" he barked.

"So what do you want me to do?" She crossed her arms and glared at him.

He startled her by pounding the top of the sink. She paled. Maybe making his breakfast wasn't such a good idea after all. She backed away as quietly as she could.

"Don't go."

She stopped. He faced her again and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry." He rubbed the stubble of his beard. "Perhaps you'd like a shower first. I think I have an extra towel. I haven't fixed up the bathroom yet, it's sort of archaic but I have plenty of hot water. I got a new water heater three weeks ago."

She ran a hand through her long hair. "A shower sounds heavenly, but--"

"Look, I'm worried about you. Okay? You've got dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks are burning up--maybe you aren't well. Maybe yesterday was too much for you. Damn. You look as if a gust of wind might blow you over."

He came over to her and slid his hand along her shoulder, a move that singed her skin, but she didn't feel at all like pulling away from it.

"Take your time in the shower. I did grab a donut at the store and some coffee."

She let him lead her down the hall to the bathroom. His touch seemed to send a harmony traveling through her veins. She didn't want it to end, but it couldn't last. She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

Oddly enough, as his footsteps echoed off down the hall, she heard him mutter to himself.

"I wish she wasn't Catherine Fiona Mullaney."

* * *

Since Mr. Jenkins' psychological makeup bore a strong similarity to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Catherine knew she shouldn't have been surprised that his bathroom had all the earmarks of a bona fide torture chamber. She couldn't help but wonder how in the world he had gotten a certificate of occupancy for the house.

The toilet had a jagged crack in it and the pipe going into the tank had been wrapped with a rag. A steady plop from the rag dripped into a bucket that was nearly full. The cracked linoleum on the floor had some fearful dips in it where the wood beneath seemed soft.

A mustiness in the room tickled the back of her throat. Half the tiles had fallen off the wall and assorted layers of water-stained wallpaper gave new meaning to the word ugly. The only saving grace was the magnificent footed tub, a relic certainly, but it had an enduring charm. If the room had some heat in it Catherine would have submerged herself in a froth of bubbles up to her chin.

Catherine touched the radiator. Stone cold. She leaned into the tub and struggled to turn on the faucets. The pipes shuddered violently before spitting out a few bursts of rusty water. Horrified, she quickly turned the water off.

A heavy pounding on the door made her frown.

"Let it run--it takes a few minutes to clear up," her host's voice instructed.

Catherine fiddled with the knobs again. She stood watching while the clanking pipes spit out more rusty water but after several minutes a steady stream of hot water issued forth from the monstrous old showerhead. She slipped out of her clothes as the steam chased away the chill in the room.

She stepped gingerly into the tub, but then the fine needles of hot water began to massage life back into her, making her feel almost human again. Mr. Jenkins had not been bragging about his abundance of hot water. She relished in the streams of warmth caressing her skin.

Once more she heard him knocking. "You left your suitcase outside by the trunk of your car. I'll leave it right outside this door for you."

She thanked him and berated herself for forgetting the suitcase. How had she forgotten all about it? It must have been because she couldn't help staring at him.

After her shower, she pulled the suitcase into the bathroom and picked out her warm, pink fleece sweats. When she returned to the kitchen, she discovered her host now perched on the ladder, dabbing at the ceiling with a brush. He had changed into his baggy overalls, leaving his shoulders bare. His muscles bulged with each stroke of the brush, setting off an odd stirring in the pit of Catherine's stomach.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you." Catherine flushed as he lowered his brush to stare at her. She didn't like the way he raised his eyebrows and sent his probing gaze traveling over the bulky sweats she wore. He stared with such intensity she glanced down to be sure she had covered herself up completely.

Tugging the fleece top further down her hips, she turned toward the stove where an empty frying pan sat waiting to be used. She prayed he didn't see her fingers trembling as she opened the package of bacon. Her pulse raced as she imagined him still staring at her.

She pulled off a strip of bacon and put it into the pan. The silence in the room felt awkward.

"That's a marvelous tub you've got in the bathroom," she said, her voice sounded higher than it normally did.

"I was thinking of throwing out that hideous monstrosity. The claws on the feet remind me of a nightmare I had as a child. It belongs in a horror movie, not in my home."

"You should throw out that cracked linoleum on the floor and really, those wall tiles are in appalling condition, but the tub is a jewel. On a house tour I saw a tub just like yours that had been resurfaced in pink enamel --"

"Pink!" There was no mistaking the disparaging tone in his voice. Catherine nearly jumped at his sharp retort. It made her feel even more uneasy and that caused her to rattle on with marked fervor.

"Well, green or blue would be nice, too. There are those who go for red or black, though I find that too bold. Anyhow, on this house tour, the pink tub was surrounded by a lovely fabric shower curtain--it reminded me of Monet's Waterlilies--which matched the skirt around the sink."

"Skirt!" It sounded like an oath.

Catherine heard his footsteps coming down the ladder. Her mouth started moving faster.

"Certainly. A skirt. It's very current--makes the old pedestal sinks look very charming."

"Women wear skirts. Sinks don't need to be modest." His voice sounded close to her ear. He had come up behind her, and she could feel the heat of him like jolts of electricity sparking across the narrow gap between them. It shocked her enough to cease her nervous chatter.

"I like clean simple lines--nothing frilly," he stated with a low rumble inches from her ear. She felt the pressure of his hand on her shoulder and thought she would melt.

His hand slid down to her waist. She wanted to deny what his touch did to her. Surely, this couldn't really be happening. Her imagination was working overtime.

"But you own a Victorian! Why did you buy it if you don't like frills?" She dared to gaze sideways. Her heart sped up at the sight of his bare bronze shoulders. Every finely detailed sinew boasted a virility that most men could never hope to attain.

"The price was right." His steely eyes locked with hers.

Her breath caught and her body stiffened as flashes of her last vision returned. The potent male before her reduced to a cold, senseless form. Pain squeezed her heart. There would be another tragedy and she would invariably witness the scene at some later date, exactly as she already viewed it.

Mr. Jenkins had already made her aware of his opinion about psychic phenomenon. Warning him would be an act in futility. And anyway, so far, she hadn't been able to change the outcome of any of her visions. She took in a ragged breath and passed a shaky hand over her eyes, trying to erase the scene from her memory.

"You-you don't have a certificate of occupancy, do you?" Her voice wavered slightly.

Heavy furrows marred his brow. "I rented a room from your uncle."

He didn't have the certificate. Aunt Evelyn would never allow any of her rooms to be rented out. Before Catherine could challenge him, the bacon sputtered in the pan, shooting out hot spatters of grease.

"Hey! Do you really know how to cook or were you lying to me?"

Catherine felt heat on her cheeks as she lowered the flame under the pan. She'd almost bungled breakfast. "I wouldn't accuse other people of lying when you are in direct violation of housing codes," she lashed out. "When I'm not distracted, I'm as good as Julia Child. There's a lot to do in this place. I'm sure you can find something to keep you occupied while I finish up."

Deep crimson spread over his features. "I'm done painting." He went back to the ladder, picked up the brush and threw it into a nearby bucket.

Catherine sighed. From the ruddy stain under his tanned features she guessed she had made him angry again and probably pricked his conscience as well.

As she kept a careful watch on the bacon, a wave of sadness swept over her that wasn't grief for her uncle. No. She mourned the loss of the handsome Mr. Jenkins. Why should such an awful fate await him? Being able to see into the future was a burden, a crushing weight on her heart.

She picked up a fork and flipped the slices of bacon over again. Uncle Mike had known she had a "gift," which is what he called her ability to predict the future. That didn't stop him from failing to heed her warning. She envied those people who stumbled through their lives, unaware of what tomorrow had in store. Blissful ignorance had its advantages.

She took out the batch of bacon in the pan and placed the slices on a plate. Then she pulled off more strips of bacon to cook up another batch. Mr. Jenkins busied himself by gathering up the plastic drop cloths noisily.

She carried the plate of bacon to him, offering him some of the warm strips.

"I'm sorry. I have no intention of reporting you to the authorities. Really."

He didn't look at her. He yanked and pulled at the drop cloths. "Keep those warm. I'm taking these outside to fold them."

At his peremptory command, she shrugged. Obviously, he held a grudge. She shouldn't have been so sharp with him, but the two of them just couldn't get along, which is why she needed to find a fat, bald and bland man for herself.

Still, without any conscious thought on her part, she reached out to touch the vibrant, warm man beside her. She slid her hand along his hard, bare shoulder. He felt so good, so alive. A tender chord vibrated deep inside her.

"Pack up and go if you want to. Forget I asked you to cook." The hard edge in his tone startled her and she drew her hand back. For all she knew, this could be his last meal.

She answered coolly as she went back to the stove. "I intend to finish what I started. Besides, I'm hungry, too." She picked up a piece of bacon and shoved it into her mouth for emphasis.

The door slammed as he went outside. The bacon tasted so salty in her mouth it reminded her of the taste of tears as she struggled to keep her grief contained.

Chapter Four

Gull Haven rarely had a day without wind, but today the gusts whipped the water in the channel into frothy white caps. Britt knew if he clambered over the seawall, he would see great swells on the ocean. He sucked in a great quantity of the crisp air, hoping to clear his head.

He had proved that those claiming to possess power to see into the future were nothing more than talented salespeople. So why did he feel a haunting enchantment take over his senses whenever Catherine touched him? Or when he touched her? Or when he looked into her eyes?

He took in another deep breath. Maybe she is a witch. The preposterous idea popped into his head before he banished it with an oath.

He knew exactly what would cure him from hungering after the delectable Miss Mullaney. He needed to make the rounds at the singles' bars or try an ad. DWM, 28, seeking S/DWF for light, flirtatious fling. No regrets. Plumbing skills a plus.

He chuckled. With any luck he could remedy his demanding libido and find a woman skilled at sweat soldering copper pipes together.

Britt took the drop cloths from under his arm, putting one under his foot so it wouldn't blow away and shaking the other one in the wind to dislodge the loose paint chips. He held tightly as the gusts threatened to rip the plastic sheet from his grasp.

It was impossible to fold the drop cloth neatly. He settled for winding it around his arm. He would be using it again soon when he finished the upstairs hall.

Lodging the first drop cloth securely between his feet, he picked up the second drop cloth. As he unfurled it, the tempest sent violent ripples snapping at the plastic. He frowned as he held on. What if no one answered his ad? What if he wound up spending eight hours or more with Catherine everyday and couldn't keep his mind on the job?

Why couldn't she have chosen some other profession? With that sweet voice she would have made a nice kindergarten teacher. He didn't think she was cut out to be a journalist. But unless he fell off the ladder and broke his leg, he knew he would be stuck with the responsibility of training her. The editor had made it quite clear that Britt was the best man for the job.

He began to reel in the second drop cloth and smiled as a new idea formed in his mind. Maybe Catherine would discover that she didn't like journalism. Lots of young people became disillusioned when they started working at a newspaper. They soon learned there isn't much glamour involved in throwing together a daily publication.

If Catherine opted for another profession, Britt would feel free to date her, a pleasant prospect that made him grin. He had vowed never to get involved with another journalist after his marriage fell apart.

He shuddered at the fleeting memory of his ex-wife. He had heard from friends that she was writing a book. He wondered if some of it would be dedicated as a form of revenge directed at him.

"Where's that paper scrap, Jenkins?"

Britt wheeled around. Detective Jamison stood three feet away, glaring at him. Britt had been so absorbed he hadn't heard the detective's car pull up.

"Good morning, detective." Britt grinned. "I figured you might be sleeping late today and I didn't want to disturb you."

"I'm an early riser. Now where's that piece of paper?"

Britt picked up the drop cloth he had tucked between his feet and stuffed it securely under his arm with the other one. He knew journalists should never antagonize officers of the law. Staying on good terms with the cops could mean the difference between a bland job of reportage and a sensational piece of journalism worthy of the Pulitzer. Usually, it only took a few precious nuggets of information.

"I'll go inside and get it for you right away," Britt swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He had already made several copies of the paper scrap when he went out for the eggs and bacon.

"Mind if I step inside with you?"

For a moment, a thin finger of panic slid down Britt's spine before he reined in his fears. The detective didn't have a search warrant. All he wanted was that scrap of paper. Britt had stashed away his sleeping bag and the blanket that Catherine had used. There wasn't any evidence that they had spent the night in the house. And, really, why would anyone prosecute him for living in a house without a certificate of occupancy? He had done the town a favor by buying the old place and fixing it up.

"Come on in." Britt led the way into the kitchen where the pungent smell of bacon filled his nostrils and started his stomach rumbling.

Catherine didn't look up when she heard the squeal of the kitchen door's hinges. She didn't want to mess up her perfect omelet as she slid it out of the pan onto a plate. True, the plate had a large chip in it and the glaze had long ago crazed, but the sunny omelet with bright orange cheddar oozing out along the side dressed up the rather sad dish.

"Julia Child, eat your heart out," Catherine muttered. "Voila!" A triumphant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She raised her head to discover two pairs of eyes focused on her. The sight of the detective made her heart plummet.

"M-my uncle . . .have . . .you . . .?" The words were barely a whisper.

The detective shook his head and Catherine swallowed a spasm of pain.

"He's come for that scrap of paper," Britt glared at her.

Catherine's hero had apparently switched into his Mr. Hyde persona. He stomped across the kitchen with his face set in rigid lines.

"We'll have more divers arriving soon," the detective stated. "An expert team, top-notch professionals. That channel is pretty muddy, but they can handle it--I've seen them do it before."

Catherine's stomach churned. She clamped her lips firmly together as she carried the pan back to the stove, hoping to regain her composure. She took a deep breath. The clue, she reminded herself. That paper scrap held a clue and now the police would have the information. They would find her uncle's murderer.

That thought gave her a measure of strength. She had convinced Detective Jamison that her uncle's death had not been an accident. It wouldn't be long before the monster who had killed her uncle was securely locked behind bars.

Jenkins returned to the kitchen, still scowling. Catherine turned to watch him hand the paper scrap to the detective. Detective Jamison produced an evidence bag from his pocket and Jenkins dropped the small note into the bag.

"I'm really surprised at you, Jenkins. You, of all people, should know better than to withhold evidence." The detective shook his head as he sealed the bag.

Jenkins shrugged and waved his hand vaguely. "In all the confusion . . ."

Catherine felt the flame return to her cheeks. Baloney. Jenkins had kept that note deliberately. Maybe he did have some misguided notion that he would be protecting her uncle, but she had told him that paper was important and he refused to listen to her.

The detective wore a satisfied smile. "We all make mistakes but I never pegged you as the type to lose his head in an emergency. You've been pretty cool doing some of your foolhardy stunts."

Catherine blinked her eyes. Foolhardy stunts? Did Jenkins bungee jump from bridges?

Jenkins mumbled, "Yeah, but Mike was special. I'll miss him."

The detective raised one brow and nodded, "It'll be different around here without him."

A heavy silence followed with the two men staring at the floor. Catherine's throat ached. Uncle Mike had been the only living relative she had in all the world. And some maniac had taken him away from her. She felt lost--like a boat adrift without an anchor.

"Please--let me know if you discover any new information," Catherine broke the silence. She couldn't hide the pain in her voice.

Detective Jamison grunted. "Right. Take care." He turned and walked out the kitchen door.

* * *

Britt heard the anguish in Catherine's plea and winced at his own stupidity. He had accused her of not knowing how to cook while she must still be suffering from shock.

"Why don't you sit down? I'll make some coffee." Britt pulled a folding chair away from the table. She gave him a quizzical stare.

"Detective Jamison said you did foolhardy stunts."

Britt rolled his eyes. They weren't foolhardy. He'd gotten some damn good stories. Okay. Maybe hanging over the bridge trying to talk some drunk out of jumping was a bit risky. Especially when the drunk slipped.

He glanced at the three-inch scar on his right arm. That was from the time he tried to reason with a real loony holding a hysterical woman as a hostage. When the guy lunged at Britt, the woman got away. It made a terrific headline. But hell, it did hurt.

"Jamison thinks doing 36 miles per hour in a 35 mile per hour zone is foolhardy," he mumbled.

She reached out to run her finger along the jagged scar. Her touch held the warmth of a healing salve.

"This came from a knife."

Britt jerked his arm away and narrowed his eyes before he remembered that the Associated Press had picked up that story and sent it over the wire.

She sank into the chair. Her hand trembled as she drew it across her eyes. "Your omelet's stone cold."

Britt's gaze fell on the puddle of congealed butter surrounding the omelet. He lifted the plate from the table and carried it to the microwave oven. "You're eating half of this."

She didn't give him an argument, only a weary shrug of her shoulders.

While the omelet warmed, he tossed instant coffee into two mugs and added water. "Your aunt isn't home most of the time."

"She's searching for the fountain of youth." She had a frown etched into her smooth forehead as she muttered those words and stared out the window at the Taylor home.

"Mike never seemed particularly lonely whenever Evelyn went away."

Catherine swung her head around and glared at him. "Uncle Mike was busy. His realty office took up most of his time."

Britt took the omelet out of the microwave and put the two mugs inside. Carrying the omelet back to the table, he cleared his throat. How could he be delicate about the topic?

"It would be understandable if your uncle sought out some companionship when Evelyn wasn't around."

"Uncle Mike would never be unfaithful! He worshipped Evelyn! He would give her the moon if she asked for it."

Britt sliced the omelet in half and slid a portion onto another plate for Catherine. Aside from her words, her anger showed in the rosy glow of her cheeks and the blue fire in her eyes. It only served to make her look more beautiful. Damn. If she was a witch, she ought to have a few warts.

He tore his gaze away from her and sat down. "Evelyn has always craved the finer things in life. What if she believed the endless fountain of cash was about to turn into a trickle because her husband might leave her for another woman?"

Catherine gasped. "H-how can you say such an evil thing?"

"Hey. It happens everyday. Don't you read the papers?" He picked up his fork and dug into the omelet. From the first bite, he decided it was the best omelet he had ever eaten.

"Uncle Mike would never go out with another woman. Never." Her lips pressed together in a grim line.

"So why was he out in his boat at two in the morning?"

She stood up with her fists clenched at her sides. "I don't know! But he wasn't out with another woman! He loved Evelyn."

Britt savored another morsel of the tender omelet. Loving Evelyn would be like loving the Ice Queen. He watched Catherine pace the floor as he ran his tongue over his lips. Loving Catherine would be like diving into a volcano. Her blazing eyes revealed heated emotions simmering at the boiling point. The air crackled with energy around her and he wondered if he touched her whether his own skin would sizzle. Another hunger that had nothing to do with food began thrumming deep within him. He put down his fork and got up from the table.

"Uncle Mike has been--had been--depressed lately," she blurted out. "The real estate market is slow right now. He was afraid he might have to let some people go. Going for a cruise in the boat always made him feel better. It gave him a new perspective, he said."

She stood looking out the back window at the channel. Britt came up behind her and watched for a moment as the marine police anchored three boats at regular intervals along the channel. Black-suited divers stood on the decks preparing to begin their search.

Britt tried to hold back, but found he couldn't resist the temptation to touch her. Drawn, as if by a magnet, he rested his hands lightly on Catherine's shoulders. He felt her stiffen beneath his touch. He turned her around to face him.

"Did Evelyn love Mike?" He slid his hand under her chin, catching the flicker of doubt in her eyes before she tried to hide it. Her eyelids came down, lashes fanning against her cheeks. How he wanted to kiss those cheeks, those tender eyelids. And taste her lips. His heart pounded with the force of a pile driver.

"Evelyn isn't a demonstrative person," she breathed out a ragged sigh. "But when Uncle Mike had his hernia operation, Evelyn sat beside him night and day."

Britt found himself struggling with his better judgement and wishing the nagging conscience would desert him. His thumb massaged her cheek, softer than the ripest fruit and begging to be plucked.

Setting his mouth in a grim line, he acknowledged that Catherine was the editor's darling and Britt's rival. If push came to shove, the editor would probably hand a pink slip to Britt rather than lose somebody with a name the American public recognized instantly. His retort came out sounding like a croak. "Naturally."

Catherine's hand shot out and shoved him away. Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. "I don't have to listen to your insinuations. Enjoy your omelet, Mr. Jenkins." With that she charged into the living room to pick up her suitcase and handbag.

Britt jammed his hands into his pockets though he felt like putting a fist right through his freshly painted wall. He felt rotten. No, worse than rotten. He felt like a high school kid who couldn't even make it to first base with a girl.

She paused at the back door on her way out and turned to face him. "Thanks for your hospitality!" The parting shot dripped with sarcasm. She slammed the door behind her.

Britt stared out of his window as she raced across the driveway, the wind whipping her hair in a mad dance. He frowned when she stopped outside the Taylor home and tugged at something around her neck. She stood facing the door for a full minute before finally turning the knob and going inside.

His gaze traveled over the Taylors' relentless gothic from its steeply pitched roof tiled in somber slate to the deep stain of the cedar shake siding. A chill wound its way up Britt's spine. What if Evelyn did murder her husband? When Evelyn returned from her alibi, Catherine would be under the same roof as a cold-blooded killer.

Chapter Five

The house did not welcome Catherine. An unnatural chill bathed her in fear, making every sound seem an ominous prelude to some heart-stopping event. In the past, whenever she had visited the Taylors, she had pinned the strange anxiety she felt on entering the house to the fact that Aunt Evelyn barely tolerated her. But Aunt Evelyn wasn't in the house right now.

Catherine stood in the center of the kitchen fighting the temptation to run back outside. Surely the sense of doom pervading the atmosphere must come from her uncle's spirit. Perhaps he wanted to communicate with her. Maybe he could reveal the person responsible for the awful tragedy.

"Uncle Mike?" she whispered. She held her breath as she waited for an answer, but the only sounds that came to her ears were the metallic pings easily attributed to the heating system. Uncle Mike could not break through the barrier separating this world from the next.

But she could. She had discovered the trigger to enable her to step into that other world at will. She hesitated, her thoughts swirling with anxiety. She had only made one attempt to initiate a vision when she had been in college and her roommate had dared her to give a demonstration. The result had been a trip to the hospital emergency room.

As bad as the visions could be when they came to her in her sleep, she had learned that trying to enter the black void while she was awake had a devastating effect on her whole body.

Better to be patient and wait. Sighing, she rubbed her arms to ward off the cold. She frowned as she wondered why Uncle Mike hadn't disturbed her dreams last night. Then she remembered the wine. Perhaps the alcohol had blocked the mysterious channel that allowed her brain access to the cosmos.

She turned to look out the kitchen window. Across the driveway, Mr. Jenkins stared at her from his kitchen window. His presence there seemed oddly comforting, spreading warmth through her, and chasing away the icy fear in her bones. Why did he have to be so handsome? So difficult? And so doomed?

He turned away from his window. Panic, like the clammy grip of unseen fingers, nearly choked her. Would she witness the death of the man who had saved her from her own demise?

No! She would stay as far away from him as possible. Besides, his cynical nature upset her. How dare he assume her uncle had been unfaithful! Uncle Mike had always been a devoted husband showering Aunt Evelyn with precious baubles--scads of them. She never wore the same trinket twice in a week.

Catherine raised her chin and squared her shoulders. Uncle Mike had offered to let her stay here until her financial status improved. She had been thankful for this refuge. Her father's medical expenses had created a staggering debt and while the book of his collected columns had done very well, the profits were quickly gobbled up by creditors.

In truth, she didn't have a dime to her name. Plus, she still had a college loan to pay off. However, luck had landed her with a terrific job and a generous starting salary. If she practiced frugality, it shouldn't take too long to get back on her feet.

She shivered with cold, sensing a presence close by. Goose bumps prickled her arms. There were others in this house, not only the mournful spirit of Uncle Mike. Other, more ominous shades flitted about these rooms.

She frowned and shook her head, pulling herself together. Of course, there would be others. Perhaps Aunt Evelyn's grandfather, who had built the house, gasped his last breath here. Evelyn's first husband and the father of her son, Drew, may have died in the house as well, though her aunt never mentioned the circumstances of his death.

When Drew had been younger, he used to terrify her with tales of a wicked old pirate clutching a bloody dagger who appeared at every full moon. Uncle Mike had successfully kept them away from his study by weaving legends about the Fomorian demons he had brought with him from Ireland.

Catherine had believed those horrors because she could sense something else beyond her sight inhabiting nearly every room in the house. While she now doubted Drew's pirate fantasies and Uncle Mike's demons, she still felt an evil menace hovering around her.

Though her heart raced, she kept her spine rigid and deliberately walked with even paces to the servants' stairway, a prayer on her lips. Climbing the winding, narrow steps, she wished she had been able to gain some insight into the use of her power. But with her father's ailment, the small jobs she held, and her course work at college, there had been little time to investigate theories on psychic phenomena.

When she reached the second floor, she allowed herself a backward glance. Nothing. But then the silence shattered as a low groan emanated from somewhere deep in the bowels of the old house. Catherine sped up to the third floor. Panting, she reached the top of the stairway and slammed the door behind her, leaning against it to catch her breath. She knew the door could not prevent any malevolent spirits from following her, but with sudden clarity, she realized she would be safe here--for now.

Catherine glanced at the long, dingy hall under the steeply pitched roof. An army of servants once lived here, devotedly catering to the whims of Aunt Evelyn's predecessors. Now boxes of memorabilia and discarded furniture sat quietly collecting dust where busy feet had once rushed off to endless tasks. Aunt Evelyn did not have servants. She had a cleaning service come in once a week, and judging by the proliferation of cobwebs, they had not touched the third floor in a long, long time.

A dim shaft of light from a small window cast a square at her feet. Dust motes danced in the eerie gleam. Catherine walked up to the window. She blew away cobwebs until she sneezed. Wiping the grime from the panes, she looked down on Mr. Jenkins' house.

Bright sunshine cast a purity over the white clapboard structure that hurt her eyes. She turned away, caught by a sweeping wave of sadness. Her mouth was already dry from inhaling the dust, but as her throat grew tight she felt an ache well up in her heart.

She clenched her hands and willed it away. She had much to do. She began marching down the gray corridor and immediately stumbled over a collection of wrapping paper. Judging from the disarray around her, it would take a considerable amount of time to get her room in order.

She had always been relegated to the third floor whenever she visited. Aunt Evelyn would have it no other way. Catherine picked her way carefully down the hall to the room which faced the ocean that she habitually occupied. She thought of it as her eagle's aerie--a room where she'd spent many hours watching the rolling waves and dreaming of faraway places.

When she opened the door to the room, her heart plummeted. Innumerable odds and ends cluttered every inch of space. The dank smell of mold assailed her. She pushed up her sleeves and set her mouth into a grim line. No matter what it took, she would make it right again.

The intensity of her task banished any thoughts of malevolent specters until an hour later when she stood outside the large closet opposite the door that led downstairs. She stamped her foot in frustration. She had already moved three extraneous pieces of furniture, two very ugly lamps, and several large, heavy boxes out of her room. Now she needed a vacuum cleaner. There always used to be a vacuum in the closet, and though the machine was a veritable antique it worked well. But she couldn't find it.

Catherine slammed the closet door and sent billions of dust particles scurrying. She headed to the stairway. Perhaps the vacuum had been moved to the pantry behind the kitchen. She raced down the stairs lightly, hoping the evil that had been so palpable to her senses when she first entered had decided to haunt elsewhere.

As she paused on the second floor landing, a low voice drifted up from the kitchen. This time it was not a disembodied groan that caused her heart to pound but the cadence of Mr. Jenkins' rumbling bass. What was he doing in the kitchen?

A flicker of anger began to blaze. She felt sure she had locked the door behind her. Did his talents include breaking and entering? Uncle Mike never handed out keys to anyone. Evelyn had too many precious things to protect.

Catherine hurried down the last flight of steps, bent on delivering a scathing reprimand. Rounding the last turn at breakneck speed, her foot landed on something slippery. She suddenly pitched forward as she lost her footing. Twisting, she tried to grab the stair rail but she missed, clutching only empty air.

She let out a cry of alarm and closed her eyes, anticipating the inevitable impact. Then she gasped as a very solid form squeezed the life out of her. Her head swam and the room spun out of focus as she was yanked back up on her feet. It took a moment to get her bearings and realize that the hands gripping her upper arms belonged to that infuriating Mr. Jenkins.

"What are you doing here?"

Hearing his voice had caused her to run down the steps. She laid the blame for the mishap squarely on his broad shoulders.

Jenkins' gray eyes bore down on her, a single brow tilted dangerously. "Preventing several broken

bones," he said sharply. "You seem to have a propensity for accidents, Miss Mullaney."

Damn! She pushed him away. "There was something . . ."

Now the infernal man thought she was clumsy. She retraced her steps and found a grease-soaked rag on the fourth stair. Scooping it up, she waved it vigorously under Jenkins' nose.

"This wasn't on the stairs before. You must have put it there!"

Jenkins tore the rag from her fingers. "You're the one covered with dirt." He pitched the filthy cloth into the trashcan with perfect aim.

Catherine glanced down at the pink fleece. In her haste to rid her room of every last speck of grime, she had managed to smear much of it on her own clothing. Her face grew hot as she realized there was little she could do in defense of her position. Lifting her head, she faced Jenkins with fury bubbling up inside her. "Get out!"

Jenkins glared at her with equal vehemence. His lips drawn into a thin line and his gray eyes smoldering. Then he turned and addressed someone else in the room who Catherine, in her agitation, hadn't noticed before.

"If there's anything I can do, Drew, give me a call."

Catherine spun around and saw Aunt Evelyn's son helping himself to a generous portion of Uncle Mike's Irish whiskey. Drew shook his tousled blond head.

"God, Catherine. At a time like this, you go and carry on with one of your silly emotional outbursts. I believe you should offer our neighbor your apology. After all, he came to deliver his condolences."

The disdain in his cultured voice cut deep. A miserable sense of inadequacy swamped her, making her feel again like the awkward, wayward child she had thought she had left behind for good.

"B-but . . ." she began. Drew, sporting a slight windburn, clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

"Well, I suppose I shall have to apologize for you--as usual." He extended a hand to Jenkins. "You really must forgive Catherine's failings. She's always been quite impulsive. I'm sure she didn't really mean what she said--did you, dear Catherine?"

So--the old rivalry between them hadn't changed. It didn't matter at all to Drew that she had actually accomplished something. He would always look down on her, no matter what.

Catherine took a deep breath. Jenkins stood, waiting with an aggravating half smile turning up one corner of his mouth. For a moment, she studied the variegated colors on Jenkins' overalls and the splotches of paint on his marvelous bare arms. Then her gaze fixed on his hand, now smeared with black ooze from the filthy cloth. She looked back at Drew, holding the glass of whiskey in his impeccably manicured fingers. Not a single smudge of grime dared to sully his white windbreaker. He presented a perfect picture. Yet, she had to admit that Jenkins' earthy qualities appealed to her far more.

"Come, come, Catherine. Don't be stubborn." Drew swirled the amber liquor in the glass before downing it in a few gulps. "It's hard enough--knowing Mike's gone. And before I left, I told him he ought to have that fuel line checked."

"It wasn't an accident. It was murder!" Catherine suddenly burst out.

The shock on Drew's face was nothing to the thundercloud that descended over Jenkins' brow. "Despite your revelation, the police continue to label Mike's death as accidental." The dry tone in Jenkins' voice grated on Catherine's raw nerves.

"A revelation?" Drew masked his shock quickly and drawled out his question as though he'd become thoroughly bored. "Have you had another one of your cosmic trips, Catherine?"

While Drew typically acted disinterested, Catherine knew that he was aware of her odd gift and the accuracy of the visions she received.

"Two weeks ago I saw it all, just as it happened yesterday. Including the location of a small note with dates and times on it, which he didn't want the police to see." She pointed an accusing finger at Jenkins.

Jenkins' face darkened further, but Catherine held her head high.

Drew clenched his jaw. "Mike had a habit of scribbling down things on odd scraps of paper. I'm sure it was really nothing--perhaps some business appointments."

Jenkins cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut.

"They weren't business appointments," Catherine stated tightly. "He indicated a time in the early morning for each date."

Jenkins mouth twitched. Catherine narrowed her eyes at him--if he said one word, just one, she would kick him.

Drew clicked his tongue. "Mike did like those moonlit rides--of course, I do, too. It's a beautiful sight, the moon rippling on the water . . ." He sniffed and hung his head.

Jenkins gave Drew a pat on the back. "Remember . . .if you need anything . . ."

Drew nodded while keeping his gaze on his deck shoes. Jenkins cast a thunderbolt at Catherine before he walked out the door.

Good riddance, she said to herself. But as the door closed behind him she shivered as if a cloud has passed in front of the sun--or someone had walked over her grave. She crossed her arms, hugging herself tightly.

"Look, Drew. I know this has been a shock, but I can't let this matter rest. Mike was murdered. It doesn't matter what the police say. My visions are always right. The times on that note hold some sort of clue." She wished she could stop herself from trembling.

Drew poured another glass of the Irish whiskey. "Poor Catherine. It must have been horrible for you to witness his death. I can understand--you want to blame someone--anyone. But gasoline is flammable, my dear. Boats do blow up. Sailing is safer." He gave her a stiff smile, one that never reached his eyes.

Catherine started pacing. Even Drew didn't believe her!

"Naturally, whoever committed the murder wanted it to appear as though it was an accident."

"Everyone liked Mike." Drew swallowed some of the whiskey, licking his lips and wearing a satisfied smile. "He didn't have any enemies. Usually, there is a motive for murder."

Catherine began to feel sick. Jenkins' theory included a powerful and very plausible motive. For a moment she began to doubt herself, to question the premonition. Her voice wavered, "I told the police that someone had been stalking Uncle Mike."

Drew took another long swallow and smiled much wider than before. "I thought you'd given up dishonest behavior. Aren't you still on parole?"

"No!" Catherine flashed as a warm rush of anger heated her cheeks. "I was never dishonest and you know it."

Drew clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Goodness, my dear. You do need to calm down--perhaps some of this whiskey?"

"There's nothing wrong with me--if only you would understand!"

"But I do! You're overwrought. You witnessed Mike's death and you're falling apart. I have a sedative, quite safe, but very effective . . ." He pulled a small vial from his pocket.

Catherine blinked and backed away. "No thank you. I'm really . . . I need a walk, that's all. But you think about it. You know I've never been wrong. Not once." She dashed for the door before the tears could fall.

* * *

Britt eased his motorboat alongside the bulkhead, a difficult maneuver in the swift moving water of the channel. He had already placed bumpers on the side of his sixteen-foot outboard. As he reached the spot where the float had broken free yesterday, he cut the motor and threw a rope over the piling, pulling it taut.

He scanned the channel briefly. The marine police had cleared out of the area a half-hour ago. The wind had whipped up the waves and discouraged all but the hardiest souls to struggle against the tide. He didn't want anybody to question his actions. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for--he only knew that something about yesterday's events disturbed him.

Britt stood up in the boat, clinging to the piling where the float had been fastened to the bulkhead. He reached for the metal piece that had snapped, freeing the float. Smooth and free of rust, it appeared to be firmly bolted to the solid beams of the bulkhead. He ran his finger along the edge where the metal must have torn away--except that it didn't appear ragged, as he expected. It looked and felt exactly as if it had been sliced neatly in two by a knife.

Or a bullet.

Britt wiped the sweat from his brow. He glanced at his watch. Catherine had been gone for over an hour. He had seen her dash out of the house, cross the road and climb the seawall, disappearing over the crest. She had gone walking on the beach, all by herself, and yesterday somebody had aimed a rifle at her.

Well, maybe. He pounded the piling with his fist. He didn't know much about guns--or bullets--other than to duck when they went whizzing by. But he had been sure that he heard the explosion of Mike's boat first, followed by a rifle shot. A properly aimed bullet could easily have started the initial explosion. And the gunman may have waited and fired again if Mike attempted to escape the inferno.

But Mike didn't have a chance to jump, according to Catherine. Britt looked across the water to the far side of the channel where he had seen Mike's cruiser in flames. Shooting at the float had to be intentional.

Catherine had been the target.

Chapter Six

Stepping carefully, Catherine avoided the mossy green seaweed growing on the rock jetty. She had come to the jetty deliberately and not only to get away from the suffocating menace of the Taylor home. Briny spray stung her cheeks as she made her way out to the very last boulder at the end of the jetty. Her presence chased away sea gulls who usually perched there. Despite the violence of crashing waves and gusty winds, inside, she felt a deep sense of peace with the elements, as though she belonged here.

She sat on the gray boulder and closed her eyes, emptying her soul into the rolling sea surrounding her. Released, her mind drifted. It would be easy--so easy--to take it one step further and enter a trance, but she would not do that. Though she wanted to convince others that Uncle Mike had been murdered, she could not control her visions, and there was no telling what horrors she would witness.

She feared the awesome and terrible power bestowed on her. She would be willing to cast it away forever if she could, but she knew that was impossible. Her only hope seemed to be in controlling it, but so far, she had gained little insight into exactly how she should go about harnessing her ability.

Clearing her mind with the harmony from the billowing swells might help allow her to test the truth, or at least, she prayed it would. She wanted to reaffirm her faith in the premonition she had received about her uncle's death.

She waited patiently, motionless on the rugged granite, until finally each of her worries had floated away with the receding waves. Then she went deep within her own psyche to ask the questions.

Has Uncle Mike been murdered? The answer came back in a gut response that sang through every nerve. Yes!

Does the note hold a clue? The answer came back with the clarity reserved only for the truth. Yes!

The waves continued to murmur to her. They teased and tempted. There was more, so much more to learn. They beckoned with each breaker. Soothing her with the repetitious ebb and flow, the constant song of the sea. Come. Come, the door is open.

Catherine hovered at the very edge of a trance. She felt free and light, like a bird poised above the water, suspended for a moment on an air current, wings outstretched.

A sudden, fiery pain shot through her index finger. She opened her eyes and stared at the finger on her right hand. Nothing appeared to be wrong, yet it throbbed with the same intensity as if it had a deep gash in it. She clutched at it, drawing in a great breath and closing her eyes once more.

Jenkins' image flashed through her consciousness. Icy, white terror chilled her. She jumped up, wondering if Jenkins now lay cold and unconscious as she had seen him in her vision. If there could be some way to stop the tragedy . . . If only her power could be used to prevent disasters . . .

Without another thought, she raced back to the shore as quickly as she dared along the rock jetty, a sense of urgency spurring her along until she reached the beach. There, the loose sand slowed her pace. Each time she stumbled or stopped to catch her breath, the ache in her finger became stronger, burning as though it was on fire.

The sound of the crashing waves resounded in her ears, calling to her, trying to draw her back, longing to swallow her in the dark, quiet depths. It took every ounce of her strength to pull away from the ocean's insidious greed.

At last, she stumbled toward the rickety wooden stairway and climbed to the top of the seawall. From there she frowned at the white Victorian where everything appeared normal. The house stood tall and proud--and empty. She sensed that Jenkins wasn't there. His car sat in the driveway. Where had he gone?

Her eyes scanned the area. The bulkhead drew her attention, and like a light breaking through the darkness, she realized she could find him there.

She descended the stairs and crossed the road. Breathless, she reached the edge of the bulkhead and peered over the edge. Below, Jenkins stood in his boat, fitting a ratchet wrench onto a piece of metal attached to the piling. Narrowing her eyes, she leaned further out. His finger appeared normal, showing no sign of injury--yet.

Perplexed, Catherine lifted up her finger and stared at it. The throbbing ache had vanished. She wiggled it a few times but felt no pain.

Had her power failed her? She had a distinct impression that Jenkins was in trouble. This was the first time she ever had such a strong premonition while she was awake--but it turned out to be wrong. She had made a mistake. Could that mean that her strong belief in Uncle Mike's murder and the clue in the note were also mistakes?

"Where have you been?" Jenkins' voice rumbled from below.

Startled, Catherine quickly hid both hands behind her back. Jenkins' brow remained clouded with the threatening frown she had seen him wearing over an hour ago. Why should he care where she had been?

"Walking."

Jenkins gave a mighty yank on the ratchet wrench. Catherine's heart did a little whirl as she watched his muscles bulge and tense.

"You shouldn't be out walking by yourself," he growled before giving the wrench another tug. Catherine's insides nearly melted as the sinews in his shoulders rippled with the incisive force.

She took a deep breath. Perhaps Drew was right. Her emotions had gone haywire. Injecting deliberate coolness into her tone, she retorted, "I'm a big girl." Pivoting, she decided to return to the house and do battle with the cobwebs on the third floor.

"Even big girls can't deflect bullets," Jenkins called.

Catherine paused. Was that a threat? Or another attempt at suffocating protection? She swung about.

"Who's going to shoot at me?" she demanded.

"Somebody has already tried, once." He had removed the piece of metal from the piling. Studying it, he ran his right index finger along the edge. As he did that, Catherine's finger suddenly felt singed. She had to grit her teeth to prevent herself from wincing.

"Perhaps the same person who didn't like Mike, didn't like you either."

"Take your finger off that thing!" she begged.

He raised his brows and gave her a quizzical look, removing his finger from the metal. The fire in Catherine's finger immediately ceased. She let out a sigh of relief, clasping her right hand close to her bosom and closing her eyes.

Britt stared at Catherine. In a split second, her cheeks, glowing with the angry sheen of a candied apple, had turned to a sickly alabaster. Damned hocus-pocus. The vixen had the earmarks of a pro. He placed his finger on the edge of the metal again.

"Stop--please!" she hissed, swaying dizzily at the edge of the bulkhead.

Britt threw the metal piece into a bucket. That crazy woman! He lunged for the top of the bulkhead and swung himself up and over, grabbing a handful of her pink fleece top to lift her up and away from the edge.

"I don't intend to jump into that water and do the valiant rescue bit every day." His face hovered inches from hers. Her eerie eyes wide and searching made his heart slam up against his chest with a jolt.

Taking in an unsteady breath, he put his left hand up to her waist, intending to place her gently back down on her own two feet. But his left hand didn't land on rough cotton. It slid up against smooth skin. His fingers sought for the small of her back, a burning grew within him and instead of allowing her to stand on her feet, he pressed her up against him.

"You beast!" she spat out. "Put me down this instant!"

The touch of her hands against his chest seared right through the heavy bib of his overalls. He dropped her like a hot coal. She landed with shoulders hunched up and head down, resembling a bull ready to gore him.

"Damn you, Catherine Mullaney! You're one hell of a witch," he swore.

A chill shot up Catherine's spine. Witch! The word seemed to echo down a long corridor of time. Hadn't she heard that word when she hid in that stuffy closet and watched while her mother was murdered? Hadn't her father muttered something about witches--and hands? Puddles of blood started to swirl before her vision, she put her hands up to her ears to stop the awful ringing of that dreadful word.

Had her mother been a witch? Did that explain what was happening to her? Or was she simply going mad, like her father?

"No!" she shouted. Calloused hands grabbed hers and held them in a vise-like grip.

"I said I'm sorry! Now cut it out, Mullaney!"

She read the fear in his eyes as she fought to chase away the living nightmare. She stared up at him, focusing on the image of herself caught in the mirror of his gaze. The reality of here and now crept over her like the warmth of the sun.

"You don't need to put on a full scale dramatic production!" He released her hands and she felt the energy drain from her.

She mustered up all the bravado she could manage. "Don't you ever touch me like that again! And don't you ever call me a . . . don't call me any names. Got it, Jenkins?"

"Don't you go falling in the channel because I'm not going to fish you out anymore. Got it, Mullaney!" he roared and pointed his index finger at her.

Catherine stared as first one drop of blood and then another fell from his finger. "Y-y-you cut

yourself," she finally stammered.

He frowned at his finger and turned to look around at the top of the bulkhead. "Broken glass. I

should have known."

"Let me bandage it," she offered. He shrugged and led the way to his back door. Catherine's finger hurt, too, but she suspected that as soon as his mended, hers would feel fine. Grimly, she considered the possibility that this incident demonstrated an increase in her power. Unless it helped her to discovered her uncle's murderer, what good was it? It could quite easily drive her insane.

Britt enjoyed the feel of Catherine's hands on his, perhaps too much. As she scrubbed and dried the area around the wound, he drank in that gentle perfume that hung in the air about her like the aura of summer. He studied the creamy smoothness of her skin. Though she didn't burn any incense, mumble incantations, or serve him some strange herbal tea, he was nearly hypnotized and perhaps would have fallen completely under her spell, but she spoke and startled him.

"This really could use a stitch or two," she commented as she squeezed some ointment on his injured finger.

He shifted uneasily and used a deep, serious tone. "That's overkill. It's only a minor cut. Just make sure I can still use that finger to type."

She lifted her eyes, wide and round, that unnerving light blue. "You type?" She sounded surprised.

"You don't see a secretary hanging around here, do you?" he grumbled.

She smiled, her lashes fluttering back down against her cheeks. She traced over his hand with her finger. "Your hands are so rough and calloused. But everybody has a computer today--don't they?"

Actually, he had two--one was a laptop, but he kept his mouth shut. So maybe Mike hadn't told her who he was, or where he worked.

He watched her carefully bandage his finger. She looked up at him and gave him another sweet, little grin. He frowned back at her. No way. She had to be playing some dumb little game. She must have heard of Britt Jenkins. Surely, she had read a few copies of the newspaper when she applied for the job.

The spell she had woven over his senses dissipated. His mind went back to the piece of metal he had removed from the piling, the sound of gunfire yesterday and Mike's boat burning in the channel. His brain clicked back into gear. Who, what, when, where, why and how. He needed to know.

"Why don't you and your aunt get along?"

Her tender smile froze and a hardness settled on her features. "I never said we don't get along. I simply stated that we weren't close. She isn't a blood relation, after all."

It amazed Britt how her eyes could go from an inviting mist one moment to brittle ice the next. He didn't doubt that a secret lay deep beneath her frozen glare. She finished bandaging his finger and moved away from him, busying herself with rinsing a towel in the kitchen sink.

Her deliberate coolness angered him for some reason. He would be blunt, he decided.

"When did this animosity between you and your aunt begin?"

Her fingers twisted the towel so tightly he could see each knuckle stand out sharply. She answered him with all the warmth of a glacier. "Are you are going to accuse my aunt of shooting at me?"

Britt ran his hands through his hair. It would be easier to go along with what the police had said--but he had to admit that he didn't trust the police entirely. They did make mistakes. "That piece of metal you nearly swooned over . . ."

She turned and faced him, looking like an angry lioness with claws unsheathed. "I don't faint!"

"When I touched the metal you sure put on a good show!" he retorted. "What were you trying to prove?"

She balled her hands into fists. For a moment, he thought she would pummel him. "I know you don't believe in psychic impressions but the fact is that every time you ran your finger along the edge of that metal piece, my finger hurt."

Britt ground his teeth together and clenched his hands.

"Bull!" he blurted out. "Keep your gypsy gibberish to yourself. I told you not to do that."

She pitched the towel into the sink and rushed out of his house. His eyes narrowed as he swore beneath his breath. Damned woman. How was he ever going to get along with her at the office? He watched her heading straight for the bulkhead and frowned.

She sat down on the edge of the bulkhead and swung her legs over the edge. Leaning on the piling, she pulled at the rope attached to his boat. What the hell did she intend to do? Steal the boat? Let it drift off in the channel? He burst out of the house. Within seconds, he yanked her off the edge of the bulkhead and set her down on the ground.

"I told you to keep your hands to yourself, you brute!"

"You keep your hands off my boat!" he retorted.

"I'm not going to hurt your precious boat. Get out of my way!"

"Make me." His nasty chuckle chilled her as he stood like a solid oak, blocking her way.

The fire in her cheeks turned to ashes as he crossed his broad arms over his chest and raised one eyebrow. All he needed was a gold earring and a bandanna to complete the illusion of a bold and ruthless pirate, ready to pick her up and carry her off.

She gulped hard. The memory of those hard muscled arms circling her waist set off a series of strange quivers inside her. She took a deep breath and prayed that he couldn't hear the pounding of her heart.

"I intend to take that piece of metal to a lab," she informed him.

He tilted his head. "How scientific."

The sarcasm in his tone rekindled her anger. Her cheeks smoldered with heat.

"I know my uncle was murdered. If that piece of metal can prove that somebody took a shotgun and aimed it at my uncle's boat . . ."

"Not a shotgun, a rifle." He rolled his eyes as if her stupidity pained him. "And if that piece of metal was severed by a bullet, it will only prove that someone intentionally shot at you."

"Ridiculous!" she fumed. "What reason would anyone have to shoot me?"

He lifted both eyebrows. "Evelyn doesn't like you."

That insufferable Neanderthal! Catherine put her hands up to her temples and started massaging them. She could feel a massive migraine coming on. She closed her eyes, wanting to add that she hadn't seen any bullets flying in her vision. But mentioning visions would undoubtedly make Mr. Jenkins rant and rave some more.

"Do you need some aspirin?" His tone suddenly warmed with concern.

"No. I'll be fine," she replied, her voice curt. If she opened her eyes now would she see the smothering Dr. Jekyll? The man changed his personality like a chameleon changed colors.

His hand came down on her shoulder. "You look sick."

She did feel ill, which was odd for she rarely got headaches. Even all the turmoil of being arrested at the age of sixteen hadn't given her a headache. This headache, however, was fast becoming the mother of all headaches. She stopped massaging her temples and clutched at the hand on her shoulder for support.

Her eyes remained tightly shut, yet far across the channel, in the waving marsh grass, she saw a structure of weathered gray wood, its roof covered with dried grass as if an attempt had been made to camouflage it.

"Maybe you should go inside and rest." His words sounded far away.

"No. I've got to find that shack," she opened her eyes, discovering that the headache had vanished as the picture in her mind faded.

"What shack?" The furrows in his brow seemed weighted with suspicion but she didn't care if he thought she was crazy. She knew she had another clue.

"Do you have a pair of binoculars?" she asked.

"Sure. Just inside the door on a hook."

She shrugged his hand from her shoulder. Without any further explanation, she ran to his kitchen door and grabbed the binoculars. Returning to the edge of the bulkhead, she scanned the waving marsh grass for a sign of the weathered shack.

"Turn a little more to the left," he instructed with his deep rumble close to her ear. A shiver went

up her spine as she carefully swung her gaze ever so slightly in the direction he indicated. A raised portion of dried, brown grass was the only variation in the acres of monotonous green on the other side of the channel. She focused in on it and her breath caught in her throat. That was it.

"It's a duck blind. Some kids probably put that one up last fall so they could maim a few ducks with their BB guns," he explained.

She lowered the binoculars to see if she could still locate the shack without the high powered lenses.

"A bullet aimed from that point would have the proper trajectory to hit both your uncle's cabin cruiser and you."

His words slammed into her like a fist. Her voice wavered. "Can you take me to it?"

He seemed to consider her request for a few moments, squinting into the distance. A lump of fear lodged in her throat.

"We'll have to hurry. It's getting late." He swung himself over the bulkhead and, despite his size, landed lightly in his boat. "Come on, I'll catch you," he called to her.

Catherine peered down. The deck of the boat rolled with the waves. While she might not land on her feet, she would certainly wind up in the boat and not in the water. She took a deep breath, sat down on the edge, and pushed herself off.

He caught her as if she was nothing more than a forward pass, swinging her into a seat in one easy motion that made her head spin. He quickly untied the line that held the boat to the piling. As the boat started to drift away with the current, he went to the outboard and yanked at the pull cord. With a roar the engine turned over. He sat down, pushing the accelerator forward.

"Hang on," he warned. Catherine gripped the bar in front of her as the bow of the boat tilted upward at a crazy angle. In seconds, the boat leveled off and they went sprinting over the tops of the waves, landing in each trough with a slam that jarred every bone in Catherine's body.

Nearing the marsh grass, he pulled back on the accelerator. "It's shallow here. We have to be careful or we'll get stuck," he shouted above the rumble of the outboard.

They crept along slowly until Catherine spotted the brown grass top of the duck blind. "There it is!" she yelled, waving frantically until he nodded.

As they came closer, a small break appeared in the undulating sea of green grass. "Look! It's an

inlet--or something."

He swung the boat around and pointed the bow directly into the narrow opening. He cut the engine and threw the anchor out onto the marsh. "We'll go in on foot from here. When you follow me, put your feet exactly where I put mine."

He hopped out onto the spongy turf and gave her a hand out of the boat. He didn't let go. His warm grasp held her tightly as they progressed slowly through the marsh. They needed to cover less than thirty feet to reach the weathered shack, but they had to be sure that each spot of turf could bear their weight.

At last they stood before the rickety shelter. Several beer cans were scattered about and a bag from a fast food restaurant indicated that someone had visited recently.

They circled the shack and found the door, which was fashioned from a flap of heavy, brown vinyl.

"You wait here, I'll peek inside."

But Catherine ducked his restraining hand and lunged forward. Pulling up on the flap, she peered into the dark interior. At first, she couldn't see, but her nostrils flared as a familiar scent sent new waves of fear crawling up her spine.

Tiffany perfume. Catherine knew it instantly. She always gave herself a spritz of the famous fragrance whenever she breezed through the ritzy store on Fifth Avenue, but she had never owned a single bottle of the expensive scent. However, Aunt Evelyn did. Uncle Mike bought it for his wife by the case. Wherever Aunt Evelyn went, the air around her was imbued with Tiffany.

As Catherine's eyes adjusted to the dim interior she saw a pile of trash cluttering one corner. Several gun cartridges sat in the garbage along with assorted fast food wrappers and beer cans. But on top of it all, a brightly colored silk scarf shimmered.

"Don't touch anything," Jenkins growled as he used his handkerchief to push the flap up higher. "The police can dust for fingerprints. And maybe one of those gun cartridges held the bullet aimed at you."

Ignoring Jenkins' admonition, Catherine stretched her arm out toward the scarf. She could bury the scarf, or drown it in the water where nobody would ever see it.

"Leave it alone!" he growled at her as he pulled her hand away. "Let's get out of here. I feel like a sitting duck."

He nearly dragged her back to the boat.

Chapter Seven

Catherine stared out Jenkins' windows and shivered as the setting sun slashed the horizon with a bloody hue, spilling scarlet ripples into the channel. Behind her, Jenkins talked to Detective Jamison on the phone. Jenkins' low tone did not hide the edge of anger in his voice. Evidently, the detective doubted the scenario that Jenkins so neatly laid out.

Catherine covered her eyes with her hand to blot out the sight of the crimson sky. How did that scarf wind up in the shack? She had asked herself that question over and over, but no answer came. She told herself the delicate silk fabric could have blown off on a breeze across the channel. The scarf could have belonged to somebody other than Aunt Evelyn, too. Just because it was drenched in Tiffany perfume didn't mean . . .

Catherine bit her lip. No. She knew that was Aunt Evelyn's scarf. The last time Uncle Mike had come into the city, Catherine had shopped with him at Bloomingdale's. He had bought the scarf for Aunt Evelyn's birthday.

Catherine remembered that the design on the scarf had repulsed her immediately. Though it depicted the classic nautical theme of sailboats tacking east and west, the hulls of the sailboats were a royal blue and the boats glided on ruby water. However, at the time she had kept her thoughts to herself and complimented her uncle on his good taste.

Jenkins slammed the phone back in its cradle, snapping Catherine back to attention. She turned to see him pound his fist into his palm.

"They'll check it out tomorrow--if there's time. Damn. The last murder in Gull Haven occurred fifteen years ago--and these guys don't have time to solve this one! The only thing they do around here is hand out parking tickets!" He smashed his fist into his palm again.

"They don't consider it a murder. Remember?" Fatigue had settled on Catherine. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Jenkins' eyes flashed flint sparks. "They could be a little more open minded about it!" he roared. "And then Jamison gives me a warning, telling me to keep my big mouth shut."

Catherine sighed. "You, of all people, shouldn't accuse others of having closed minds, Mr. Jenkins. Perhaps the detective intends to keep the case quiet because he hopes to lure the murderer in some way while the police gather up a strong enough case to nail the guy."

He frowned at her, his lips forming a tight line. He didn't have to say a word. He had already picked his candidate for murderer, and nothing would sway him from that conviction.

Catherine cringed inwardly. She didn't want it to be true but she knew that scarf belonged to her aunt. And it had been her own premonition that led her to that rickety shack on the marsh. Nevertheless, she tugged her fleece top down over her hips and tilted her chin up defiantly.

"You better do as the detective says. People like you can do more harm than good."

"I rely on the facts. And so far, the facts are pointing in only one direction." He crossed his arms over his broad chest and turned to look at the Taylors' house. The blazing sunset glinted on the sleek chrome of a tan Lexus as it pulled into the driveway.

Catherine's heart plummeted as Aunt Evelyn stepped out of the car wearing a stunning black pantsuit.

"She's already mourning," he commented. "How touching."

His pointed sarcasm set Catherine's teeth on edge.

"You could be wrong." It didn't surprise her that her words sounded half-hearted.

He tilted one eyebrow up to give her a more piercing glare. "My theory stands on a firm foundation but you lied to the police when you told them somebody was stalking your uncle."

"I had to lie! You took that piece of paper and you wouldn't give it back." She clenched her fists so tightly the nails dug into her palms. He was an abominable man! She spun around and headed to the door.

She cried out as an iron grip closed around her arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" he rumbled.

"Where I belong," she snapped. "And didn't I tell you to keep your hands to yourself?" She saw him blink and noticed the passing shadow soften his features as he released her.

"That woman may have hired somebody to kill her husband--and you, too." He raked his hand through his hair.

Catherine closed her eyes. Where were the answers she needed? Could she find the solutions by entering a trance? She sighed. If she could find a way to steer herself through that cosmic otherworld . . .but she could not. She opened her eyes to discover Mr. Jenkins frowning at her with concern.

"The Marriot in Rivershire might have a vacancy. Why don't you call?"

The Marriot! If the situation wasn't so awful, Catherine would have laughed. Instead, she covered her eyes with her hand. She couldn't afford a fancy hotel. She had just enough money to put gas in the car because Uncle Mike had promised to take her in. But Uncle Mike was dead.

And Aunt Evelyn? Catherine's hand trembled. She quickly put it behind her back before Jenkins noticed the tremor.

"Drew's home. I won't be alone with Aunt Evelyn." Catherine could feel the icy chill seeping back into her bones as she stared at the Taylors' home. No one could ever be truly alone in that house. The phantoms inhabiting the old Gothic were as palpable as the plaster and lathe walls. And now the shadow of Uncle Mike had probably joined the others, she mused dismally. As evening came on, would she see them venture from the gloom and wander through the halls?

"Drew. Right. I suppose you could count on him." Jenkins hung his head, seeming to study the white tile beneath his feet.

Catherine frowned. She could always count on Drew to belittle her--but he did have a certain flair in dealing with his mother.

"Goodnight, then." Catherine nodded curtly.

It surprised Catherine how Jenkins, so imposing in stature, could be so quick on his feet. Like a panther closing in on the kill with the silent stealth of padded paws, he suddenly barred her exit.

"Just remember one thing, Mullaney, if there's anything suspicious or you come across some other evidence in that house, you get over here on the double--and that's an order!"

He pointed at her with the very finger she had bandaged for him. She glanced from the injured finger to his delightful broad shoulders, to the chiseled planes of his face, and finally to his smoldering eyes. Oh, he was overbearing and imperious, but he was also very handsome.

He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. "You want to see justice done, don't you?"

She nodded and sighed. Now she understood what Jamison had said about Jenkins pulling foolhardy stunts. He was a man who would do exactly as he pleased. Jenkins' stubborn tenacity would make a mule jealous.

"We've given the police more information. Let them do their job." She knew from first hand experience that the police could do a spectacular job of botching up an investigation, and she guessed from the grim set of Jenkins' mouth that he had as much faith in the police as she did.

"You don't need to worry about me. I'll be safe." Catherine had a strong temptation to reach up and smooth the hard lines in his jaw.

With lightening swiftness, his hand shot out first and his fingers slid through her hair. "Somebody has to worry about you and it seems the job fell into my lap."

She wove her own fingers through his and savored the rough texture of his skin. Despite his callous exterior, she sensed a tenderness lurking beneath. The scent of gasoline mingled with brine on his skin, along with honest sweat--a heady fragrance, one that spoke of truth. He was so real, as much an element of the earth as iron. She sensed safety in his arms. She needed so badly to have someone to lean on, someone she could trust now that Uncle Mike had been murdered. Her defenses crumbled.

She tilted her face upward and ever so slowly his lips descended toward hers. Her heart sang as she realized how she had actually hoped for this to happen. His mouth, hot and greedy, covered hers. Her senses spun as he deepened the kiss. She sank, all soft and pliant, against his hard contours. Heat shimmered through her and she twined her hands around his neck, losing herself in the sweetness that she didn't know she would find.

Time stopped. There was only now, only the need building inside her for a hunger she hadn't ever craved until this moment.

Then the image of Jenkins, cold and senseless, flashed through her mind and a wave of cold fear swept over her. She pushed away from him. Her premonition had indicated that sometime soon he would be quite dead. The knowledge tore at her. Her throat ached and tears pricked the back of her eyes. But she could do nothing about his fate. Nothing.

She looked up at him and gulped hard, fighting to push the emotion out of her words.

"I told you to keep your hands to yourself," her voice quivered.

"You said nothing about my lips."

The biting edge of sarcasm in his voice stung her. She didn't want to hurt him, but it was better this way. At least, she hoped it would be. Maybe, that would be his very last kiss.

"Good night," she almost sobbed as she dashed out his door.

"Take care, Mullaney," he called after her.

* * *

Catherine placed her clock on the tiny night table. It was after ten o'clock and she longed to lay her head down on the pillow. Straightening out her room had used up every last bit of her energy and she would have loved to close her eyes, but Drew had warned her that his mother wanted to see her.

She got up from the bed and stood by the window. She could not see the waves, but she had opened the sash to air out the room, and now she listened to the pounding surf as it crashed against the sea wall at high tide. The wind moaned and seemed to echo the sorrow in her own heart.

She got so wrapped up in her thoughts that when the knock at the door sounded, it made her jump.

"Mother said she would see you now in the parlor," Drew's voice was muffled by the thick oak door.

"I'll be right down," Catherine called back. She had changed into a neat pair of somber gray slacks topped by a silver gray blouse. Catherine knew how much appearance meant to Aunt Evelyn and she didn't want to offend her aunt's sensibilities with an outfit that might seem too bright for the occasion. Unfortunately, Catherine didn't own anything black.

She made sure her blouse had been tucked smoothly into the waistband. She tugged the brush through her hair a few times. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door and made her way down the dim hallway to the stairs.

Catherine had hoped that Drew would wait for her, but he had vanished. A stillness had settled on the house and the usual creaks and groans seemed to have abated for the night despite the wind outside. The filmy specters were still there, however. Just as Catherine could feel her own heart beating, she sensed other vibrations coming from some nebulous source. Yet, it was as if the others all held their breath and waited.

Catherine's heels clicked on the parquet floor in the downstairs hall as she approached the parlor. The parlor's pocket doors remained locked most of the time since the room was seldom used. Tonight, however, the pocket doors stood open. She stepped through the archway into the room.

The only illumination came from the dying fire on the hearth. The pale glow from the embers did little to brighten the atmosphere. Catherine sat carefully on the edge of one of the sofa's velvet cushions.

The slow cadence of creaking floorboards warned her of Aunt Evelyn's approach. Catherine stood up as her aunt entered the room.

"I'm really sorry . . ." Catherine gulped as a lump rose in her throat. She extended her hand and Aunt Evelyn's icy grip closed down.

"There will be a memorial service next week." The frosty voice accompanying the steely handshake caused Catherine to fight a maddening impulse to pull her own hand away. The distinctive fragrance of Tiffany that clung to her aunt's black wool jacket made Catherine feel like she was suffocating.

"Since you're starting your job tomorrow at the Daily Press, you'll be able to support yourself now." Evelyn suddenly dropped Catherine's hand with the disgust normally reserved for rotten fruits and vegetables.

Catherine crossed her arms to surreptitiously bring some warmth back into the hand that her aunt had numbed.

"Michael is dead." Evelyn said it with about as much emotion as if she had just combed her sleek golden hair and found a knot. "The fact that Michael was your uncle means nothing to me. I do not want you in this house, ever again."

Catherine opened her mouth but she couldn't get a single word out of it. The shock of her aunt's decree caught her completely off guard.

Evelyn walked over to the fireplace. She stared down at the hearth and her eyes began to glow with the reflection of the embers. "I never could understand how Michael could be related to such riff-raff."

Riff-raff! Heat burned on Catherine's cheeks as any ounce of sympathy she had for Evelyn vaporized.

Catherine grabbed a handful of Evelyn's jacket. "The book of my father's collected columns is on the best seller list. He was a brilliant man!"

The corner of Evelyn's mouth twitched and something flickered in her jade eyes. "You are a criminal."

Catherine dropped her hand from Evelyn's sleeve. Nothing she could say or do would ever erase that blot on her record. But it was late, and she was exhausted.

"I haven't got a dime to my name. I can't afford to stay anyplace. Didn't Mike tell you about the medical debts?"

Evelyn turned around with the precision of a drill sergeant. "Michael had the good sense not to bore me." She stood in the archway for a moment, picking at an imaginary piece of lint on her jacket and smoothing out the crinkles that Catherine had caused. "You have half an hour to remove your things." Then she went off down the hall.

Catherine stood there, frozen to the spot. Her mind went blank. Now what?

A long, slow scraping sound emanated from some distant corner and set Catherine's teeth on edge. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim atmosphere but as she slowly panned the room, she didn't see anything moving--human or otherwise.

"Saints have mercy," she murmured under her breath. Was that the groan of old wood, or a moan? Or the eerie wail of a banshee? Catherine held her breath as she lifted out the Celtic cross underneath her blouse.

When an unexpected crash sounded from the bowels of the house, all logic left her. A wave of pure terror set her feet racing. Catherine did not want to meet the demons lurking in the walls.

* * *

So far, Britt had discovered ten mistakes in the first four pages of the Sunday edition of the Daily Press. But he hadn't absorbed a word of what he had read. He sat in the kitchen, glancing across the driveway every so often, his nerves on end, waiting to hear a gunshot--or a scream.

He was an idiot. He should never have let her walk back into that house. He pushed away the mug of coffee he had just zapped in the microwave. His churning stomach didn't need another dose of caffeine.

He squinted at page five and another error jumped out at him. Damn. He circled a comma splice with his red pen. Where did these college graduates get their degrees--from a mail order catalogue?

When the Taylors' back door slammed, Britt jumped up, heart racing. He went to his own door and flipped on the porch light. He saw Catherine running to her car as if the devil nipped at her heels. Without a second thought, he raced after her.

He caught up with her just as she fumbled with the key in the lock. He swung her around to face him and she let out a cry of alarm. Her shoulders trembled beneath his grip. When he assured himself she didn't have any bullet holes piercing her, relief flooded through him. He clasped her against him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Let me go. Let me go!" She struggled in his arms.

"Not until you tell me why you're in such a hurry to leave."

She stopped thrashing in his arms, but her body still quivered. In the harsh glare of the porch light, her eyes seemed huge. He steeled himself against the danger of sinking into their depths.

"I . . .I'm not leaving. I just left something in the car."

She did not tell lies very well. He felt her nerves tense and loosened his hold--but not enough to let her get away.

"Tell me what went on in there." The huskiness in his own voice startled him. The editor had fixed it so that Britt had full responsibility for Catherine. And he had taken a chance with that duty. He had gambled with Catherine's life.

She lowered her head to send her hair cascading over his arm. The silken strands whispered against his skin, and he fought the urge to draw her up against him.

"Nothing happened. Why are you spying on me? I told you there was nothing to worry about."

Another lie! But why? Something had frightened Catherine. He released her from his hold. She took in a ragged breath and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

"So long, Mr. Jenkins." The tight smile didn't hide the fear glittering in her eyes and when the Taylors' back door opened, he heard Catherine choke back a cry. He followed her gaze and saw Drew lugging a suitcase with one hand while he struggled not to drop clothing draped over his arm.

Britt studied the shadows. No one else appeared to be around.

"Catherine, whatever did you say to Mother?" Drew asked as he approached. "You know what a terrible shock this has been for her."

"She . . .I only said . . ." Clamping her lips tightly together, she snatched at the clothing and fumbled with her key to open the trunk of the car.

"We know how volatile you can be," Drew drawled and grinned at Britt.

Britt stared into Drew's hooded eyes. He didn't like the cold gleam he saw there.

"Actually, I think Catherine has seen a ghost," Britt gave Drew one of his own winning smiles.

A brief spark of terror widened Drew's eyes before he could disguise it. His laugh sounded hollow. "Catherine sees all kinds of things on her cosmic trips. If she conjured up a ghost this time, it shouldn't be surprising."

The lid of the car trunk popped open and Catherine threw in the clothing she had taken from Drew. The silk blouses, dresses and skirts still clung to the hangers. Drew heaved in the suitcase. Britt's blood simmered slowly as he watched in silence. Dear Aunt Evelyn had thrown Catherine out.

Catherine slammed the trunk closed and cleared her throat. "Drew . . .I need . . ."

"Money--again?" Drew turned down the corner of his mouth. "You got a big check from Mike only a month ago."

Catherine put a hand over her eyes. "Look . . .I just need a place for the night. It's late and I'm exhausted."

Britt ground his teeth together and stepped up next to Catherine. He never noticed before that Drew had inherited some of Evelyn's ice.

Drew shifted his feet as he glanced from Britt to Catherine. "You could sleep on my boat."

Britt clenched his hands. "You told me the bilge pump wasn't working."

Drew grinned. "Oh. I forgot. But it isn't taking on that much water. It wouldn't sink."

"I can't swim," Catherine said.

"I have plenty of spare room, Catherine. You can stay here tonight," Britt offered.

Chapter Eight

Every bone in Catherine's body cried out for rest but she could not accept Jenkins' offer. When he touched her, as he had only a moment ago, warmth surged through her. And desire. She had never felt like that in any other man's arms. The thought of staying another night in his house sent delightful little tingles up and down her spine. You must not get involved with him, she reminded herself.

Temptation wrenched at her heart but logic won. She must refuse. Putting on a brave smile, she said, "Thank you, but I've imposed on you enough. You mentioned the Marriot in Rivershire. I'm not sure how to get there. Perhaps you can give me directions."

She couldn't afford the Marriot but she had to get away from the powerful tug Jenkins exerted on her affections. The unexpected tenderness she had discovered in their one brief kiss lingered and made her hunger for more.

Jenkins made her repeat the directions until she got them right.

"My boat really won't sink," Drew grumbled. "You'd be perfectly comfortable and it won't cost you. Though, I suppose you don't really care about the cost," he added with a sneer.

Catherine ignored Drew's taunt. "Goodbye." She nodded stiffly at both men and gave them a brief wave. Then she got in her car and drove off.

The mild weather of May would make it easier for her to sleep in the car. The temperature could be counted on not to dip to freezing, even at night. She opened the window and filled her lungs with the briny air. I'm so lucky, she told herself with all the confidence she could muster.

But her eyes misted with tears as she crossed over the bridge into Rivershire. The sting of her aunt's cruelty cut deep. Aunt Evelyn's dispassionate attitude had chilled Catherine to the bone and made her wonder. Perhaps Aunt Evelyn was responsible in some way for Uncle Mike's death. Pain stabbed her heart and a tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. She shivered, remembering Jenkins pointing out that somebody had tried to shoot her as well. And the scarf. Oh God. The Tiffany drenched scarf.

Everything's going to be all right, she reminded herself. The police will take care of it all. She straightened her shoulders and tried to ignore her anxiety. Clutching the steering wheel tighter, she fought down her doubts.

Catherine knew she would become a successful newspaper reporter. She had the skills and the determination--nothing would stop her. Tonight's problem with lodging was simply a minor setback.

She stopped at a gas station to freshen up in the rest room. Then she drove to the parking lot of the Daily Press where she intended to spend the rest of the night. She didn't want someone rapping on her window in the wee hours of the morning, so she pulled into a spot a good distance from any other cars in the lot.

She bundled up in her coat and hat to settle on the back seat of her sedan but despite being physically and mentally drained, she couldn't sleep. At first she thought it would simply be a matter of finding a comfortable position. Then she decided hunger was a probable cause, so she dug out a bag of pretzels she had stashed in the glove compartment.

The pretzels didn't satisfy her, however. The ache inside her didn't come from hunger. The memory of Jenkins haunted her tonight. But unlike the phantoms in Aunt Evelyn's house who touched Catherine's heart with icy fingers, the spirit of Jenkins filled her with longing. She set the pretzels aside. Sighing, she allowed herself to drift into a dream about him until a flood of warmth surrounded her, compensating for her discomfort until, at last, she slept.

* * *

Britt left the house early, nearly forgetting to stuff a tie into his jacket pocket. He hated strangling himself with the darn things, but he did need a tie--sometimes--for his professional image.

He had also nicked himself shaving so hurriedly. He looked in the rear view mirror of the car as he drove to Rivershire and tried to staunch the blood with his handkerchief. He hoped all his rushing would not be futile. He intended to solve his dilemma once and for all. Surely the editor could be a reasonable man about the situation. Britt's talent shouldn't be wasted on playing nursemaid to a newly hatched journalist.

Besides, Catherine Mullaney created a powerful distraction. He couldn't imagine getting any work done with her perfume wafting under his nostrils and her eyes hypnotizing him.

Lining the road to Rivershire, millionaire's estates sat behind meticulously trimmed hedges. Britt passed the gates of his ex-wife's Georgian-style mansion. Heddy still lived there with her father and a devoted staff of servants. Despite the vast interior space, Britt had felt strangled under that roof. He'd found the lifestyle of the rich and famous too stiff and formal for his taste.

He relished the freedom of owning his own home--even if it didn't have marble steps and gold chandeliers. It irked him that Catherine had found his decor so barren. He liked it clean and simple. He didn't want anybody putting holes in his brand new sheetrock! But he did need furniture. Some strong, sturdy chairs and tables ought to fill up the place and give it a more homey appearance.

He frowned as he tried to imagine Catherine sitting in a massive oak chair with tough plaid covering the cushions. He sighed. No. Her dainty figure would look more natural in a chair with delicate curved legs that had cushions covered in a flowery fabric.

Britt pulled into the lot at the Daily Press and took up two spaces to prevent dents in his sports car. As he leaned over into the back seat he noticed a gray Caprice parked further down. One rarely saw any other cars of that vintage still on the road.

He frowned. Could Miss Mullaney be sitting in the editor's office at this moment? Then he remembered that her car had New York plates on it. He got out of his car and hurried over to check the plates. Damn. Just as he suspected. The vehicle did belong to Catherine.

A sudden movement inside the car caught his eye and a cold chill slid down his spine. Had Catherine left the car door unlocked? Had some drunken bum crawled into the car?

Britt tried the handle. Locked tight. He peered through the glass but he saw only an old plaid blanket wrapped around a slight form in the back seat. He thought for a moment. Maybe some kid had run away and decided to hide here for the night. What a story that would make. Runaway! He could see the headline in his mind. Britt pounded on the door.

* * *

Catherine woke up with a start at what sounded like an earthquake. With her heart thumping wildly, she threw back the blanket and sat up, shielding her eyes from the harsh light of the new day. The heavy drumming stopped. She squinted, rubbed her eyes, and drew back in shock at the sight of the angry face outside the window.

Jenkins! She felt the blood drain from her face. What explanation could she give him?

"You slept in your car all night?" he bellowed at her.

She shrugged and pulled the knit cap off her head, freeing her hair, sending it tumbling over her shoulder. She had dreamed that Jenkins had slept beside her, his arm around her, keeping her warm and safe. And now, here he stood, fury blazing--and dressed in a nicely tailored sport coat with a crisp white shirt. Catherine glanced down at her crumpled clothing and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her gray slacks.

She rolled down the window and smiled, "This is my first day on the job and I didn't want to get stuck in traffic and arrive late."

"There isn't any traffic in Rivershire!" he retorted.

"There are six lights between here and the Marriot," she guessed.

"Four," he stated.

The sunlight gleamed on his jet-black hair and Catherine had a powerful urge to run her fingers through it. She grabbed the blanket instead and began to fold it.

"Nice seeing you again, Jenkins," Catherine stated tightly, hoping he'd get the hint and vanish.

He reached into the window, unlocked the door and opened it. "Out!"

She glared at him. "I'm sure you have better things to do than annoy me."

"I'm sure you didn't have any breakfast," he retaliated.

Catherine had hoped to allay the pangs of hunger with a few more pretzels but the thought of a substantial meal made her mouth water. She glanced at her watch. She had plenty of time but she didn't want to spend any of her precious cash. And she didn't want to owe more than she already did to Mr. Jenkins.

"I'm on a diet." She set the folded blanket beside her and reached down to find her shoes.

"Liar," he growled. "I'm buying you breakfast in the diner across the street and you better eat every last crumb."

When the plates of hash browns and eggs arrived at their table, Britt sat mesmerized watching Catherine as she stabbed the hash browns with her fork. Just as he never tired of staring out at the ocean, he didn't think he would ever grow weary of gazing at the perfect oval of her face. However, the dark smudges under her eyes had him clenching his teeth.

"Did you get much sleep in the car?" he asked.

"I slept well, thank you," she replied.

"Did you eat any supper last night?" he questioned.

She glanced up at him. A tinge of color had come back into her cheeks.

"I guess I forgot," she answered.

"Forgot!" he growled low. "You could make yourself sick!"

"I wasn't hungry. Besides, I never get sick." She lifted her chin defiantly. "Remember--when I get my first paycheck, I'll treat you to breakfast."

Britt lowered his brows. Apparently, Miss Mullaney was experiencing some cash flow problems. That seemed odd, considering that the book of her father's collected columns had done so well. And her uncle had written her a big check last month, according to Drew.

Britt glanced at the label on her jacket. Designer stuff. His ex-wife, Heddy, had a fondness for the same designer and Britt knew how pricey those clothes could be.

"Is your favorite store Saks?" he asked.

With all the innocence of a child, she opened her eyes wide and full. "Saks? I walk through there sometimes and dream."

Britt glared back. "You obviously do more than dream. That jacket could only have been purchased in Saks."

She blinked and turned her head to look at her jacket. Then her face brightened and she giggled. "I got that in a thrift shop. I get some really good buys at second hand stores."

Britt leaned back in the booth. As easy as it was to tell when she was spouting off a bunch of Blarney--it was also a cinch to be certain that her words were the gospel truth. He had never met anybody quite as transparent as Catherine. He smiled. Actually, discovering honesty nowadays was quite refreshing.

While Catherine freshened up in the rest room, Britt read the article in the first edition of the Daily Press that he had fed to the rewrite man over the phone concerning the additional findings on Mike Taylor's death. Since there had been little else that the police would divulge, the article was mostly a rehash of the previous day's story.

Britt could smell a rat better than most journalists, a talent that served him well. He had decided that the investigation of Mike Taylor's death had a certain familiar odor to it. Detective Jamison had discovered something and was trying to keep it hidden. Britt doubted Catherine's contention that the detective was gathering evidence to nail the perpetrator. It seemed more likely to Britt that the detective intended to protect the perpetrator.

Britt folded up the paper when he saw Catherine walking back to the table. She had drawn her hair back into a ponytail with a fancy clip, covered up the dark smudges under her eyes with makeup, and added a cheery color to her lips. But she walked stiffly and several lines marred her forehead.

Britt raked his hand through his hair. No doubt Catherine had a bad case of first day jitters. He remembered his first day on the job. He'd been like a tightly wound spring.

He reined in the emotion. He couldn't feel sorry for Catherine. She had to do her job--he could not grant her any leeway. He stood up.

"Thanks again for the breakfast--just remember, I'm going to do the same for you," she stated firmly.

"Right," he nodded tersely. "I'll walk with you across the street, Mullaney, but after that, you're on your own."

The chill in Jenkins' tone sent icy fingers down Catherine's spine. The terrible sense of anxiety that always squeezed at her heart before a traumatic event had her clutching her handbag so her fingers wouldn't shake. Would something dreadful happen on her first day at the job? Would this be the day that Jenkins met his untimely end?

She should do something. Her mind buzzed with a hundred different ways of warning Jenkins as she followed him to the diner's exit. In the foyer, she decided it was now or never and grabbed his arm.

"Jenkins, there's something I've been meaning to tell you." She gulped.

He stared down at her with his eyes as cold as gunmetal, brushed her hand away and said nothing.

"You've got to be careful today," she said.

"No, Mullaney. You've got to be careful. There's no favoritism on the job. Get that straight right now."

"Don't worry about my job!" Catherine raised her hands. "I'm talking about you--don't take any chances, today!"

"Is that a threat, Mullaney?" he growled.

"It's not a threat, it's a warning!" she snapped. "For your own good."

The heat from his gaze felt hot enough to vaporize her, but Catherine was close to tears with frustration. If only he wasn't so pigheaded.

"I don't want anything to happen to you." She latched on to his lapels. "Can't you understand that?"

His words had a sharp and bitter edge. "I don't care who you are, or what your connections are, but I can guarantee that I will not . . ."

Catherine yanked on his lapels, until his lips were a whisper away from hers. She closed her eyes and murmured a fervent prayer for his safety but she decided he needed something even more powerful than a prayer--a charm to protect him.

She kissed him. At first, he kept his lips firmly pressed together. But Catherine poured all her heart into her wish that he would escape his unhappy fate. Her lips grew hot as she savored the taste of him. With a groan, he relented and let her tongue slip between his lips. There, mingling with the aroma of coffee, she discovered a passion that left her breathless.

She clung to him as a new world opened to her, one where warmth flowed through her whole body, detonating a blaze of feelings she didn't know existed. His arms gathered her closer as he sought his own conquering victory by thoroughly plundering her mouth. Then his lips left hers and the aching anxiety came back to strangle her heart. He stepped away from her and straightened out his jacket.

"It won't make any difference." He walked outside and left her standing numbly in the foyer before she could think of a reply

* * *

Catherine perched on the edge of a chair in the office of Joshua King, editor of the Daily Press. With the aura of a college professor, Joshua's slight stature, graying hair, and soft-spoken manner almost succeeded in calming the nervous knot that had tightened in Catherine's stomach.

"I'm sorry to hear of your uncle's death. I can imagine how hard it must be for you," the editor took off his glasses and patted around stacks of papers, then opened the top drawer of his desk. He sighed, creasing his forehead. "I can't seem to find the case."

Catherine cleared her throat. "It's in your pocket."

He patted the pocket of his nubby tweed jacket. "So it is." When he smiled, kindly crinkles feathered out from the corners of his soft, brown eyes.

For just a moment, Catherine relaxed the death grip on her handbag.

Joshua King stood up. "As I explained before, you'll be working closely with one of our experienced reporters for a while. It's our Mentor Program for new employees."

Catherine's new boss led her out of his office to a section of the building filled with neat rows of computer terminals. Several employees smiled at Catherine as she walked past them, but she barely nodded back to them. Her fingers wrung the strap of her handbag into a twisted cord.

"As I'm sure you already know, your mentor is one of the best reporters we have. Absolutely tenacious when it comes to digging for the truth," Joshua went on. "He's built himself quite a reputation."

Joshua stopped at the end of the row of terminals to pat the shoulder of a man who cradled a phone against his ear while his fingers flew over the keyboard. The star reporter of the Daily Press turned his head and Catherine's tight control crumbled. Her handbag fell to the floor with a muffled thud. Joshua bent down automatically to retrieve it.

Catherine's cheeks burned as Mr. Jenkins concluded his phone call and entered his story into the newspaper's memory bank.

Joshua handed Catherine the fallen purse. "Britt told me you two already met under unfortunate circumstances. You know, if you need a few more days to recover from the shock--?"

Catherine shook her head. She needed money desperately. "Thank you, but I'll be fine."

Joshua rubbed his hands together briskly. "In that case, I'll leave you two now. We're happy to have you with us, Catherine. Britt is a great teacher. You couldn't ask for more."

The editor walked away.

Catherine swallowed hard. "Well. Let's get to work."

Chapter Nine

Britt drove toward Gull Haven on Rivershire Road. Monday morning's municipal court would be Catherine's first assignment. Britt knew from past experience that it could be a rowdy scene if the weekend weather had been sunny and warm. Plenty of drunk and disorderly out-of-towners would guarantee an interesting session.

Whenever he stopped at a light, he glanced at Catherine. She sat with her hands tightly clasped together, as if they had been glued into that position. She didn't even appear to be breathing. She had promised to call him Britt from now on. He had grudgingly decided that taunting her with her last name was a rather adolescent tactic, even though he had enjoyed seeing the blaze in her eyes whenever he did it.

As the car rounded a bend in the road, he took another surreptitious look at her. She reminded him of a porcelain doll. Looking at her now, it was almost impossible to believe that a little over an hour ago, he had tasted the fiery sweetness of her mouth and felt her body melding with his.

He unfastened the top button on his shirt and rolled down the window. Damn. He had told her that kiss wouldn't make any difference, but it had. The taste of her lips lingered on his tongue, making him crave another sampling.

At first, he believed she had thrown herself at him to secure her position at the newspaper, yet she appeared genuinely shocked when she discovered he would be in charge of introducing her to the routine at the Daily Press.

"Didn't you ever read anything with my byline on it?" he finally asked.

"Yes, I did," she answered. "It's just that . . . well, you never told me your first name . . . so I never imagined--after all, Jenkins is a rather common name and you looked like a laborer, a carpenter!" She lowered her head and closed her eyes.

Britt laughed. A carpenter--him! She lifted her head and glared at him. Evidently, she didn't think the idea was so funny.

"You wore those splattered overalls and walked around showing off your bulging muscles--and behaving like the very worst chauvinist!"

Britt grinned. "Bulging muscles? You noticed?" He enjoyed the way anger brought color back into her cheeks and made her eyes flash.

For a moment, her tightly clenched fists looked ready to slam into him, but then she clasped them back together in her lap. With a tight voice, she said, "I swear I had no idea that you were Britt Jenkins, senior reporter at the Daily Press. I . . . I haven't really been myself the past few days, but I can guarantee that our relationship will be strictly platonic from now on."

Britt sobered at her words. It would be difficult to keep everything on a strictly intellectual level with Catherine after losing his head with that explosive embrace. He had responded with an intensity that surprised him. Maybe he really hadn't been himself for the past few days either. Maybe Mike's death affected both of them more than they imagined. Maybe he should see a shrink.

No, he didn't have time to gab with a counselor. Besides, he had already tried it for a while after his mother's death. Writing his expose on psychic frauds had been a better form of therapy for him and after his divorce, working on his house alleviated his bitter feelings toward Heddy, his ex-wife.

He shifted in the seat and readjusted the rear view mirror as a tense silence filled the interior of the vehicle. If Catherine truly did not have a clue about his identity, she must be feeling thoroughly embarrassed, he decided. She didn't say another word and neither did he.

* * *

There wasn't a spare chair remaining in Gull Haven's municipal court.

"Weekend drunks," Britt muttered to Catherine as he flipped open his notepad and stood up against the back wall of the small courtroom.

Catherine nodded and followed his example, preparing to jot down the facts. She had carried in a tape recorder, too, so she fiddled with the buttons to make sure it would be ready. Her fingers trembled, and she hoped he wouldn't notice. She had already made a complete fool of herself. Why hadn't her intuitive powers allowed her to see him as a journalist?

She swallowed hard as she realized the answer to her own question. Her body reacted so strongly to him that she could only see in him a potent sexual message. She suspected it would now take a miracle to convince him that she had some measure of intelligence. She could not make a single mistake--not one.

Unfortunately, Drew was right about her terrible tendency to be impulsive. She had already made one huge mistake which had given her a true taste of the criminal justice system. It would never have happened if she hadn't let her emotions get the better of her, she reflected with a sigh. If only her father hadn't been so ill, if only she hadn't been desperate to save him, if only she hadn't believed that she was going crazy, too--well, sometimes she still thought she might go over the edge, but at least she would never attempt another burglary.

She clenched her teeth as she recalled her outrageous behavior at the diner after breakfast. She had thrown herself at Britt because of her vision of him as a doomed man. Her throat tightened at the awful possibility of what would happen to him. She couldn't stop it from happening. Her terrifying glimpse of the future would soon be reality. A dull ache twisted through her heart and she couldn't get enough air in the cramped courtroom.

"Take off your jacket," Britt whispered in her ear. "It's stuffy in here."

She started when he deftly slipped off her jacket. His touch sent a thrill through her. Turning to thank him, she looked into his smoldering eyes. Unabashed lust burned hot in his gaze. She felt compelled to step backward. The response echoing in her own body alarmed her, and the certain knowledge that his hunger for her was her own fault made her wince.

Fortunately, the judge entered the room and the session started. Catherine's pulse returned to an even pace as her mind whirled. Her pen flew over the paper, accumulating data. Parking tickets, DWI, drunk and disorderly--all in the vicinity of that notorious watering hole, the Happy Sailor, Catherine noted.

Then came the fight. It started when a forty-ish, man with a beer gut accused his next door neighbor, a frumpy middle-aged woman, of killing his dog. Within seconds, violent oaths rent the dullness of the courtroom.

"You witch!" the man shouted at the woman.

Catherine pressed herself against the wall. Witch! That word always seemed to assail her like no other--racing along a black cavern in her mind, freezing her with fear. Her pen stopped moving.

"You monster!" the woman screamed back at the man. "Your dog killed my Fluffy!"

"That thing was a rat--a rodent!"

"Fluffy was a guinea pig!"

"It was a rat! Only an old hag would have a rat for a pet. Witch!" he roared.

The judge banged his gavel and called for order, but the two adversaries paid no attention. The woman slapped the man across his face and the man retaliated with a solid punch to the woman's jaw. Catherine clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry as the woman fell to the floor with a sickening thud. A hoard of police exploded on the scene, seemingly from out of the woodwork.

Instinctively, Catherine clutched the cross around her neck. She grew strangely light-headed for a moment as a tingly sensation prickled along her spine. Then an inner voice whispered a command. Look, came the order. Without hesitation, she obeyed, bounding toward the fracas.

"What are you doing?" Britt called after her.

Three police officers struggled to subdue the furious man. Two others lifted the woman from the floor. Catherine glanced around taking in every detail.

"What am I supposed to see?" she whispered aloud.

A hand clamped down on her arm, sending a black chill shooting through her.

Detective Jamison growled in her ear. "Nothing. And if a word of this appears in the paper . . ."

"Haven't you heard of freedom of the press, detective?" Britt smiled pleasantly as he tapped the detective's hand with his pen.

The detective glowered at Britt as he released Catherine's arm. "Gull Haven's number one industry is tourism--as you know. The mayor doesn't want this town's image tarnished in any way with the tourist season coming up."

Catherine swung her head around and stared again at the violent man struggling while the police held him so they could slap handcuffs on him. Her body tensed as the voice within her whistled insistently, see!

She glanced at the handcuffs as they clicked into place. There, a jagged pink line, a scar, marked the flesh on the man's wrist.

For a moment, the room around her darkened as she recalled where she had seen a scar similar to the one on this stranger's wrist. Her father had been marked by a scar, also on his left hand--one that she had never noticed until his illness when the need for him to wear a watch became meaningless. She had been puzzled at the discovery, but by that time, her father lived in an odd maze where nothing seemed to connect to reality--and she never learned what incident had caused the injury.

Catherine shuddered and blinked her eyes. Everything came back into focus.

"Well, we've got our DWI's for the day," Britt continued talking to the detective in a cheerful voice. "And I know the mayor enjoys reading those--he likes to let everyone know that the pristine town of Gull Haven doesn't put up with drunken louts on the street. Isn't that right, detective?"

"Scram," the detective hissed.

"One moment," Catherine addressed the detective in a firm tone of voice.

Britt took her elbow and nudged it, "Let's go, Catherine. The detective has a headache."

Catherine shrugged off his hand. "Did your men investigate that shack out on the marsh?"

"We do our job, here," he replied with a hint of sarcasm. "And other than a few stolen items . . ."

"Stolen?" Catherine's brows rose.

"Yes," the detective's face drew closer to hers. "There was a burglary at your aunt and uncle's home two weeks ago. Some of the items in that shack were the ones the crooks decided were obviously worthless."

Catherine thought it odd that Uncle Mike hadn't mentioned the theft. "Have there been many burglaries in Gull Haven?" she asked.

"No." Detective Jamison's face took on a threatening aspect. "Rivershire usually has all the break-ins. Now get lost."

"So nice meeting up with you again," Britt grinned as he tugged at Catherine's arm. Judging from the detective's fierce glare, Catherine decided that Britt had the right idea and they hurried outside.

Britt opened the door of his car for Catherine. "What were you trying to do? Get thrown in jail your first day on the job?"

Catherine slid into the car and said nothing. He would never understand her compulsion to obey the command of her inner voice. He would think she was crazy.

He jumped into the driver's seat and threw the car into gear. "Detective Jamison has a short fuse. Don't tempt him."

Catherine shivered, not because she feared Detective Jamison, but because she wondered about the significance of the scar she had seen on the man's wrist. Why had her father worn a similar scar? Her father never spoke of his life in Ireland. She knew nothing about his youth. Had her father belonged to a gang where the initiation rites consisted of mutilation? Or a cult?

Catherine's mouth felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton, for though the man in the courtroom did not have an Irish name, the scar on his wrist looked fresh.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a hectic blur as Catherine typed out copy, wrote headlines, and handled rewrite. Britt simply grunted when he checked out her work and didn't find anything wrong with it. He handed her a sandwich at one point as the editor stopped by to ask how things were going.

The editor nodded pleasantly at her and explained that they would have a photographer taking her picture for tomorrow's edition. Then the editor detailed exactly how much space Britt had to fill with a story about Catherine.

"That much for me!" she gulped. "You really shouldn't--I mean--it's very kind of you but I'm sure there are more newsworthy items."

The editor simply patted her shoulder and smiled in his kindly way. "You're very important to us, dear."

Britt scowled. He didn't look too happy about the assignment either. As the editor walked away, Britt put his hands on his hips and glared at her.

"All right, Catherine. What have you done on your own?"

The implication in his tone set her blood boiling. So that was it. He assumed she got the job only because Ed Mullaney had been her father--despite the fact that she had already whizzed through the tasks he had ordered her to do.

She clenched her teeth and counted to twenty before she felt civil enough to answer him. "I graduated magna cum laude."

"I graduated summa cum laude," he retaliated.

So--it was war, Catherine realized. She would have gotten the highest honor if she didn't have her crushing personal problems, though she had no intentions of telling him about those. She launched into her triumphs--editor of her college's literary magazine as well as the college newspaper, and a summer internship with one of the most prestigious newspapers in the country where she had been offered a job upon graduation.

"So why didn't you take the job?" he asked.

It took all the strength she had to answer him in a level voice that wouldn't betray her emotions. "Because Uncle Mike told me I belonged with him."

* * *

Britt sat staring at the blinking cursor on the screen long after he chased Catherine away to powder her nose for the photograph. He didn't believe in writer's block but for the first time in his life, he didn't know where to begin. He could pinpoint his problem easily enough--he had become too involved with Catherine. It was difficult to be objective when he felt more like composing a sonnet to her beauty.

In addition, he regretted his callous treatment of her. He sat up straighter and typed in her name. Stick to the facts, he told himself. He frowned. Damn. He hadn't asked her anything about her childhood and he needed to fill a considerable amount of space. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. She probably hadn't played with dolls as a little girl. She must have been born with a computer mouse in her hand. He had to admit that she had a lot of talent, though he had no intention of telling her so.

He opened his eyes again and took a deep breath. He knew exactly what the editor wanted--more subscribers to the Daily Press. It would be absolutely necessary to tie Catherine in with her father. Then Britt smiled, he knew exactly where he could find a reference to Catherine's childhood. Ed Mullaney had used incidents from his daughter's life in many of his columns.

Joshua King had a copy of Ed Mullaney's book--and he needed Joshua's permission to use excerpts from the book. Britt raced off to the editor's office.

* * *

Catherine sat in the newspaper's morgue searching through the microfilm. Detective Jamison had been right about the burglaries in Rivershire. There had been plenty of them, and the percentage had risen steadily over the years. But why not? The exclusive estates along the river would be logical targets for thieves.

Naturally, there had not been a story in the paper about the burglary at the Taylors' house in Gull Haven. Catherine had not expected to find it. It might tarnish Gull Haven's image. Murder would sully the reputation of the seaside town, too. But an accident could happen anywhere. Lower the flag to half-staff for a loyal citizen and hold a memorial service in his honor but don't mention the word murder.

Catherine wound up the reel and turned off the machine. What could she do? Detective Jamison had the small scrap of paper in his possession. He had the important clue.

She furrowed her brow. If she kept a close watch on Aunt Evelyn maybe she could find a crack in the perfectly poised woman's façade. Maybe Aunt Evelyn would go mad and blurt out the whole story.

No. That happened on television detective shows. She might have more luck piecing together her uncle's movements before his death. Her uncle sold houses to people. It could be that somebody was violently unhappy with their new home.

She could also initiate a vision. A shiver ran down her spine. Even though she hated entering that dark world where she had no control over the terrifying scenes she viewed, she might be able to discover a hidden truth. Though she hoped that tonight, in her sleep, Uncle Mike would come to her and tell her what happened.

The door to the morgue opened.

"It was quitting time an hour ago, Catherine. What are you doing here?" Britt stood there with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and one finger hooked in the collar of the jacket tossed over his shoulder.

The flame of desire threatened to upset Catherine's control. She turned her attention back to putting away the roll of film.

"I checked back to see about that burglary at my uncle's house two weeks ago, but it wasn't mentioned in the paper," she stated with deliberate coolness.

"I live next door and I didn't hear about it," Britt replied. "Why don't we check it out at the Gull Haven police station on the way."

"On the way?" She frowned at him.

"I'm not letting you sleep in your car tonight and I want to make sure you've been properly fed," he informed her.

"That won't be necessary." She tilted her chin up. "I have decided to take up Drew's offer and sleep on his boat."

"It leaks like a sieve."

"He assured me that it won't sink." Catherine picked up her handbag and her jacket. As she reached for the doorknob, Jenkins leaned on the door, imprisoning her.

"Why don't you have any money, Catherine?"

For a second, she thought of unburdening herself. He had broad shoulders, big enough to cry on. But what good would it do? And she had to keep her distance from him. She could only get hurt if she got too close to him.

"I'm simply having a cash flow problem. The royalty check is a little late this month and--foolish me--I dined at the Rainbow Room twice and Sardi's three times . . ."

He snatched at her hand and held it firmly though she tried to tug it away. "Give it up. You can't tell a lie. Even if it wasn't written all over your face, it's pretty obvious you haven't been living in the lap of luxury for some time. The rich have much fancier fingernails."

"I can't type with those claws that some women wear!" She knew she should have put on a little polish even if she did think it was a waste of time. "And how do you know what rich people do anyway?"

He dropped her hand and let out a loud hoot of laughter.

Startled, Catherine stood there, studying her naked fingernails until his amusement died down.

He took a deep breath. "Thanks. That was the best laugh I've had in years."

Catherine scowled at him. She failed to see the humor in the situation. "Now that I've entertained you, please allow me to leave. I told Drew to expect me."

He raised one eyebrow, and Catherine wondered if he would detect her small lie. Still, he removed his hand from the door.

"I'll check out the police station on my own, then," he told her. "But I'll stop by the marina later on to make sure you're properly tucked in."

Catherine felt heat flaming on her cheeks. "I can take care of myself," she retorted.

"So you say," he spoke softly but she could hear an edge of danger in his tone. "But, don't forget, somebody tried to shoot you."

The blood drained from her face and she clutched the doorknob. "What did you do with that piece of metal from the piling?"

"I kept it away from Jamison. I know someone who can get it examined by a expert."

Catherine nodded. "Good. I don't trust that detective."

"At this stage of the game, I don't think you can trust anyone," his voice hardened.

Cold fear squeezed her heart. She might have relied on him, but she knew how dangerous that would be. He couldn't help her once he left this life behind him.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she stated tightly, "I'll keep that in mind. See you tomorrow."

Then she hurried out, glancing warily all around her.

Chapter Ten

Catherine turned down a side street in Rivershire that led to the Hill Sailing School and Marina. Uncle Mike had purchased the property for Drew's business venture after Drew had flunked out in his junior year at college. Catherine noticed a distinctive new sign with gold letters. The sailing school must be doing well.

When she drove her car through the gate, an unexpected chill swept over her. Her heart raced and her hands, suddenly clammy, slid on the wheel as panic sped through her. Could some evil be swirling in the night mists blowing in from the river? Or was she becoming paranoid? Maybe Britt's fear for her safety was making her jump at her own shadow.

Gripping the steering wheel tighter, she tried to reason with herself. She had no real proof that somebody wanted to do her harm. Even Aunt Evelyn would have to have a better motive for murder than simply having a strong dislike for her.

Parking the car, she took several deep breaths and managed to suppress her anxiety. She stepped out into the foggy mist and her nostrils flared. The sickening stench of decay made her stomach churn. In the moisture-laden air the putrid odor clung to her. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she quelled the flutters in her stomach. The stink had to come from a dead animal, a raccoon or an unfortunate pet, she reassured herself. Or a rat. She swallowed hard and glanced around. She didn't see any dark shapes skittering across the lot, so she walked to Drew's office.

His office, a gray cottage, blended into the mist. With only the soft glow of light coming from the windows to guide her through the increasing fog, Catherine felt disoriented. The icy chill began to gnaw at her again as the dampness soaked her hair and skin. Reaching the door, she grabbed the brass knocker. The resounding thud sent a shock wave of fear straight to her heart.

Fighting the urge to run, she sent the knocker banging against the door a second time. This time the door opened and Drew stood before her clad in a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans. Catherine hesitated before stepping inside. The dark outfit gave him a sinister look. She had never seen him wearing anything but his expensive nautical garb.

Drew addressed her with a scowl firmly entrenched on his forehead. "What is the matter now?"

Catherine bristled at the question but she maintained her poise. "Yesterday you said I could sleep on your boat and I thought I'd take you up on your offer."

Drew's broad grin held a tinge of malice. "But you can't swim and it does leak."

"You told me it wouldn't sink." She shivered as wisps of gray mist floated past her through the doorway and into the cottage.

"Not tonight at least." His eyes narrowed to slits. "I had it taken out of the water to be repaired."

"Oh." Her heart sank. This meant another night in the car in weather that would not be as agreeable as the previous evening. She looked beyond Drew into the cottage. Cluttered by an assortment of sailing paraphernalia, a large desk, and a trophy case, it didn't offer the slightest possibility for a good night's rest.

"Down on your luck again, my dear?" Drew's delight in her misfortune seemed obvious.

"Uncle Mike told me to get rid of as much of the debt as I could. I sold everything. There's nothing left."

"I notice you're still wearing that silver cross. An antique, I'll bet." He reached out toward the gleaming metal.

Catherine covered it with her hand and stepped backward. "This is all I have left from my mother. I would never sell it. In fact, Uncle Mike told me it wouldn't be right to sell it. He said it had a bit of fairy gold in it," she sighed. "He always said things like that--I know it's silly. He told me he would take care of everything, but now..." She struggled to keep herself from falling apart and covered her eyes with a trembling hand.

"Well, I haven't got time to find you a place to stay. I'm going to be up late with my bookkeeping," Drew growled.

Catherine took in a ragged breath and clamped a lid down on her emotions. She would walk away with her dignity still intact. "Sorry to bother you, then. So long."

She turned to go, and took a few steps out into the eddying mist when a figure appeared like a specter come to haunt her. Catherine stifled a cry as the man she had seen fighting in the courtroom that morning called out.

"Okay, boss. Everything's ready."

Catherine spun around to question Drew. "He works for you?"

"Night watchman," Drew answered tersely. "He told me he saw you this morning in court. I bailed him out."

Catherine glanced at the man again. He nodded at her as he came up to stand beside Drew at the door of the cottage. The smothering sense of evil returned full force. The two men stared at her but said nothing. Then they gave each other a questioning glance. Catherine's fear spiraled as a terrifying image formed in her mind. She could see exactly what the men intended to do to her.

Her hand went to her throat to clutch the talisman that kept her safe. Drew nodded slightly to his henchman. Her heart pounded as the voice inside her head shouted, run!

She started to race to her car with the sound of footsteps pounding behind her on the solid black pavement. In the whirling dampness, Catherine ran blindly. She could not dispel the image from her vision. The men's vicious thoughts burned in her mind while confusion and panic tore at her in the darkness. When she stumbled against a boat trailer, she realized she had been heading toward the water.

The shouted oath behind her spurred her on. She sprinted away when suddenly, headlights glared in the fog. Squinting, Catherine put her arm up and heard the blast of a car horn in her ears. A familiar blue sports car appeared from a break in the mist.

"Don't we have a date for dinner?" Britt's voice boomed out.

Catherine whirled around to check her pursuers. They had stopped a few yards behind her, two dark figures shadowed by the fog. The terrible scenario in her mind evaporated. Britt had foiled their wicked scheme--for now. A sigh of relief escaped her as the menace surrounding her ebbed away slowly.

"Yes . . . dinner . . .of course . . . s-sorry I'm late."

"I'm starving," he complained loudly. "Why don't you lead the way and I'll follow." He waved to the men. "Hi, Drew."

Drew waved back. With the aid of Britt's headlights, Catherine located her car and got in. After she had driven a mile the numbness wore off and her body shook uncontrollably as the horror of the experience swept over her. She slowed the car and pulled into the lot of the first restaurant she saw.

* * *

"Drink it," Britt threatened. "You're still shivering." He wanted to gather her in his arms but he knew he could not trust his body's reaction.

She stared at the pink concoction in front of her. "What is it?"

"A sweet but potent cocktail. It'll take the edge off." He lifted his own glass and took a generous sip. It burned all the way down to his gut. He took a deep breath. Damn. He needed it more than she did. He couldn't imagine why those two goons had chased her. And Catherine didn't seem to want to talk about it.

"I haven't eaten anything since lunchtime," she muttered.

"Great. It'll work faster." He thanked his lucky stars that he had tailed her to the marina. She took a few tentative sips of the liquor.

"It is tasty," she admitted. She swallowed some more and licked the froth from her lips.

"You missed a spot." He ran his index finger along her lower lip and felt a surge of heat pumping through his veins.

She gave him a tremulous smile and some of the terror faded from her eyes.

"Now tell me what happened," he insisted.

Her shoulders drooped slightly. "I got a little shook up seeing that man, the one who punched that woman in the courtroom this morning."

"Why did they chase you?" He leaned close and kept his voice low.

"I had a . . . I sensed something . . . evil," she blurted out.

Britt raked his hand through his hair. "Don't be obtuse. You're a reporter, remember. Who, what, when, where, why, and how. Give me the dialogue, Catherine. What did they say?"

She sat up straighter, took a deep breath, and glared at him. "Nothing."

He clenched his hands on the table. "I sat in my car at the gate and I heard voices. I couldn't quite make out the words until that one nasty curse erupted."

"You followed me," she accused.

"I've got a half page story on you in the morning edition. Don't you want to be around to bask in the glory?" He couldn't stop the husky edge that crept into his tone.

"You're jealous," she stated with a bit of color coming back into her cheeks.

"Yes, I am," he admitted. "But it's a damned good story and I want you to read it."

She frowned at him with blatant mistrust. "I don't like surprises. What did you say about me?"

His grin spread slowly. It felt good to have the upper hand. He took another leisurely swig from his glass while her eyes burned him with laser-like intensity.

"There's one incident where, as a child in the sixth grade, you threw a tantrum so that your father would send you to ballet lessons instead of swimming lessons. All your friends were taking ballet and you believed a tutu was prettier than a bathing suit. You won. I assume that's why you can't swim."

Her façade seemed to crumble a bit. His smile vanished as he reached for her hand.

"What do you suppose it's like--to drown?" The catch in her voice cut him like a fine-honed blade. Had the men intended to throw her in the river?

He clenched his teeth as his anger seethed. He had to fight against the fury he felt, he didn't want to upset her further. She looked too fragile right now.

"You're safe with me." He lifted her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles, glancing up in time to see her dash away a tear.

He vowed to himself that he would teach her to swim. It wouldn't be an unpleasant task, judging from what he had seen of her figure. His pulse raced at the thought of holding her in the water. Damn. He downed the rest of his glass. What had come over him? Catherine was Joshua King's rising star. Britt ought to keep his hands off. But could he?

* * *

"This is your spare room?" Catherine found she could not prevent the note of distaste in her voice as she studied her surroundings.

"You should have seen it before I fixed it up." He plopped her luggage down on a floor that appeared to be covered with tar.

"This looks like an abandoned building in the South Bronx. There aren't any walls." She wrung her hands as her gaze followed the trail of a wire that led to a bare bulb dangling from a beam in the center of the room.

"The beams are solid and the outside sheathing is in good shape. But the old plaster lathe walls had to go."

She couldn't understand why he stood there with his arms folded across his chest and a big satisfied grin on his face. She had never seen anything quite so ugly. At least his bathroom had that redeeming tub, but this room had nothing.

"What do I sleep on?" she asked.

"I've got a spare air bed and an extra sleeping bag I keep on hand for guests." He winked at her. "I'll get it right away." He rushed off.

Catherine blushed. Of course he would have guests, most likely women, she surmised from the wicked gleam in his eyes. She doubted he would offer the use of this chamber of horrors to his female companions though. They probably slept in his room which had white walls--naturally--and was neat as a pin with a gleaming oak floor.

His room did not have any furniture in it, but when she had peered in through the doorway an image popped into her mind of a brass bed topped by a cheerful patchwork quilt. Underneath, an eyelet dust ruffle skimmed the floor. To Catherine, the picture presented a comforting scene. It looked like home--or at least, the home she would like to have someday. She frowned, uncertain whether the pleasing tableau she saw in her head belonged to the future or the past. Still, she did think a brass bed would be exactly right for his room.

The horrible, grimy room where she now stood looked depressing. A small chill wound its way around her heart. Would Britt get to finish fixing up this room before his untimely demise?

She wished she didn't possess such awesome knowledge. Though it gave her the opportunity to guard her heart, she knew she would be happier if she could save him.

He bustled back into the room with the airbed, sleeping bag, and a hair dryer. Within minutes, the bed puffed up into a delightfully soft cushion. Catherine rolled onto it immediately, closing her eyes.

"This is definitely better than the back seat of my car." She sighed. "I'll give it a five-star rating--even though the ambience needs a bit of work."

"Catherine--"

He ran his finger along her cheek, sending a shock wave coiling through her. She opened her eyes wide and stared at him. He knelt at the side of the airbed, gazing down at her. The hard lines in his face softened, giving him a boyish charm that appealed to her--very much. But she couldn't allow herself to get involved--it would hurt too much when . . . Damn! Why did she have to be a prophet of doom?

Fighting against the heat weakening her resolve, she pushed his hand away and scrambled to her feet.

"What will you charge for rent?" She tossed her hair over her shoulder and eyed him levelly.

"How are you at sewing on buttons?" he asked, the corner of his mouth turned up in a lop-sided grin.

"I don't intend to be a charity case. As soon as my first paycheck comes in, I will pay for the use of this room."

"But I've got a bunch of shirts--expensive shirts--that I can't use because the buttons are missing. I thought I would get around to it, but I've been so busy with the job and then this house . . ."

"How many shirts?" Catherine grimaced. She'd never liked to sew, but she didn't want to impose on Britt's generosity. After all, tailors were paid for their services.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know--lots. Come on, I'll show you." He turned, walked out into the hall, and then entered his own room. Opening the door to his walk-in closet, he pulled a large cardboard box down from the shelf.

"I saved some of the buttons," he stated, opening the lid.

Catherine put her hand in and pulled out several shirts, all white. "These do come in other colors, you know," she commented.

"White goes with everything."

She glanced up at him. The white shirt he had worn all day was open at the throat, revealing the deep bronze of his skin. He smiled at her with teeth that matched the pristine cloth. Why did he have to be so handsome? A deep sadness touched her heart. She dropped the shirts and cleared her throat.

"I can see you haven't been taking care of yourself," she stated. "You really ought to stick close to home and stay away from damp, dark places."

He frowned at her. "What has that got to do with the shirts?"

She twirled a lock of hair around her finger and stared at the floor. Should she tell him exactly what would happen?

"Hey. Will you sew on the buttons or not?" he asked impatiently.

"Sure. No problem," she sighed. She would have to accept the fact that she couldn't change his fate. "I'll start tomorrow." She turned to leave his room.

"Wait." He gripped her shoulder. "I'll drive you to work in the morning. I don't want anything happening to you."

Fear slid down her spine. She didn't want anything to happen to him, but something terrible would certainly occur. She had seen it. Even worse, she was destined to be there with him when it came to pass. She shrugged off his hand. "Okay. Good night."

He set the box of shirts back on the closet shelf.

"I'm sorry, Catherine for being--for trying to--"

"You hated me."

He blinked, raked his hand through his hair and stared at the floor. "Yeah." A sheepish grin spread across his face. "But I'll forgive you for being famous, if you'll forgive me for being a cad." He lifted his head and stared at her.

Her heart skipped a beat as she caught the sparkle in his eyes. The way he looked now, she'd forgive him anything. But she must keep her distance and guard her feelings.

"You saved my life," she reminded him coolly. "You don't need to apologize." She quit the room before her defenses melted in the heat she saw in his eyes.

* * *

Britt stared up into the darkness of his room. The fog outside kept the world in a black pitch and muffled the noises from the channel. He didn't usually have any problems falling asleep. The hours of physical labor he put in fixing up his house normally worked like a charm. Of course, he hadn't had the time to work on the house today and he did have Catherine sleeping in the room across the hall.

He had listened to her puttering about. Then he had listened to the silence. He felt a stab of pain recalling the way she had flatly stated that he hated her. He regretted the way he'd treated her.

He took a deep breath and put his hands behind his head, but sleep continued to elude him. His thoughts centered around that scene with Drew and his hired hand chasing Catherine. What had she said to make them so angry?

He sighed. And then there was Evelyn. Was she going to get away with murder?

Britt had a chunk of sheared-off metal, a photocopy of an odd note, and a deadline for tomorrow evening's edition. What could he do? Joshua King had been a lenient editor on a number of occasions, but he drew the line at anything that smacked of vigilante journalism. The Daily Press could not afford a lawsuit.

Finally, he closed his eyes. Plenty of criminals got away with murder, robbery, assault and even rape. The world was not safe and never would be. Humankind's powerful emotions caused all the problems. Every crime could be blamed on either anger, greed, or lust.

Lust. Britt blew out a huge gust of air. With Catherine but a few steps away, he'd better be careful. Still, he let his mind wander, picturing her with her dark hair loose and spread over the pillow, her creamy breasts rising and falling as she slept.

When the shriek split the quiet night, Britt jumped up, his heart pounding, and sped down the hall.

Chapter Eleven

Britt raced into Catherine’s room. She lay like a marble statue, still as death. He knelt beside her and touched her forehead, then drew his hand back in shock. Her forehead felt like ice. Panic clutched at his heart. Had she died? Had he heard her last gasp for help?

No! She couldn’t be dead. He was having a nightmare. He reached out to touch her frozen cheek, then he patted it.

"Catherine. Catherine!" he called. "Wake up. Please!" His hands trembled as he sought for her pulse, but he couldn’t find it. Raking his hand through his hair, he knew the last resort was CPR. He had never taken a course in the life-saving technique but he remembered seeing a demonstration. Taking a deep breath, he tilted her head back, held her chin in one hand, and covered her mouth with his own to send warm air into her lungs.

* * *

Catherine waited for her vision to unfold. She had emerged from the great, dark abyss to find herself on the bank of a river cloaked in fog. She couldn't see beyond a few feet and the noises were muffled. The dampness chilled her to the bone.

Suddenly a small sailboat appeared through a break in the mist to glide to the shore without the ripple of a wave. Catherine watched a man climb out and pull the hull of the boat onto the beach. She saw a scar on his man’s wrist and fear caught in her lungs. She recognized him as the same man she had seen at Drew’s sailing school.

She had learned in past visions that she must view all of the events presented to her. The malevolent force that brought her to this place would not release her from the grip of her living nightmare until the tragedy about to erupt had run its course. She had no recourse but to follow the horrible man with the scar.

The man clambered up the steep hillside that rose sharply from the small beach. His feet snagged on the underbrush and fallen branches snapped loudly in the stillness as he thrashed higher toward the turreted mansion that topped the hill. The soft glow of security lighting cast eerie shadows on the grounds.

Catherine’s mind whirled with images of the man’s scheme. In her heart she knew he planned to break into the splendid home. Lawless ideas spilled into her own thoughts. She saw the way the burglar intended to handle the situation--the wires that needed to be cut, the door he had chosen for the easiest access, and the items he would place in his sack. She also knew that despite his plans, something would go wrong. A far stronger menace lurked somewhere close by, a power so oppressive that her heart struggled to beat in the tense atmosphere.

The criminal reached the patio of the grand house and stood there panting for a moment and sweating profusely. The man was a vile character with a cold, black heart but as Catherine stood beside him, a fiendish drumming in her ears warned her of the rapid approach of danger.

Oblivious to the threat, the man wiped his brow and headed toward the corner of the house, pulling a rope from his belt as he went.

"Turn back," she told him as her anxiety grew. "There isn’t much time." But he could not hear her soundless words and continued with his task. The drumming in her ears became a savage roar as the man cut the wires and the lights went out. Glass shattered, a curse exploded in the night. Then silence..

"Stop!" She tried to scream at the robber. The weight of death hovered near She wanted to turn away but she was frozen to the spot. She was trapped in an invisible web, bound in that time and place, aware that a brutal climax was about to take place.

"Please, let me go!" she cried to whatever power held her in the grip of her horror, but her plea went unanswered.

In the blackness, she heard the heavy tramping of boots crashing through the woods. She sensed that there were three more men and while she could not see them, she could read the murderous thoughts flowing through their minds. The vibrations of pure hatred sent stabbing waves of pain to assault her.

"No!" she called to the dark figures who brushed by her in the gloom. "Stop! Stop!" But they did not stop. They went into the house with Catherine in their wake. A flashlight’s beam shot through the night, silhouetting the hulking figures in front of her and she gasped. They grabbed the man who had broken into the house. In the dim light, his face contorted with fear as the point of a knife was placed at his throat.

They were going to kill him, and she would sense every bit of the terror and agony he would endure. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound left her lips.

A distant echoing voice called her. She turned away from the ghastly scene to find a warm wind caressing her, chasing the chill from the foggy night air. The ice in her heart melted, fading the vision before she could view the fatal blow. Over and over she heard her name pulsating through the vast abyss and for the very first time, she saw a gleam of light beckoning to her, guiding her out of the nightmare. It was as if a door had opened, the door to home. Catherine reached for it with all her heart.

* * *

Catherine moaned softly and her eyelids fluttered.

"Thank God." Britt groaned. "Come on, Catherine. Wake up, sweetheart."

Heartened by the small response to his ministration, Britt took another gulp of air and bent down to puff more life into her, grateful that he would not have to do a chest massage--she looked so frail and delicate, he feared he would break her ribs. While her lips remained cold, he could not deny that he enjoyed the taste of them and he felt guilty that his body demanded so much more. Her arms slid around his shoulders and he lifted her against his bare chest.

"Catherine, I was so worried. What happened?" He closed his eyes as his heart thundered. His hands tangled in the lush mane of her black hair, then moved down to her waist, her skin separated from his by only the thin nightgown she wore. Need, with all the heat of a blazing summer night, struggled to win against his will.

"Thank you," her voice sounded thin and reedy. "They wanted to kill him. I didn’t want to see it--to feel it."

"The nightmare’s over." He rubbed her back. Her skin warmed with his touch. "Do you have nightmares often? You should have warned me."

She didn’t appear to hear him. She whispered in a voice still high with the edge of fear. "It’s happening right now, somewhere on the river. He’s a terrible man but they are inhuman."

"Yes, yes. But the dream’s gone," Britt persisted. "Nobody is going to hurt you."

Her body stiffened and she pulled back. "You don’t understand--I had a vision. Please believe me! Someone has been killed!"

Her words started Britt’s anger simmering. "You had a ‘spell’ of some sort. You should see a doctor and get some medicine to prevent this kind of thing."

She pushed him away. "It would be very nice if a pill could take away the visions but, so far, medical science hasn’t come up with anything effective--not for me, at least."

Her skin still had a pale cast to it, almost as white as a cold winter moon. The feel of her smooth skin against his and the smell of the gentle perfume that lingered in her hair tempted him to ignore her ridiculous imaginings. It would be easy if he didn't have years of anger behind him to rise up and remind him that nobody could predict the future. Nobody.

He stood up. "You passed out and you had a bad dream. I won’t tell Joshua about this if you promise me that you’ll see a doctor."

A rosy blush came back into her cheeks. She spat out words, clipped and angry. "I had a regular physical three weeks ago. I can give you a photocopy of the results, if you insist." Her blue eyes blazed.

"I want proof." He could feel the tug from those eyes, drawing him, luring him to come closer.

"Fine. I’ll have it on your desk tomorrow." She snatched at the sleeping bag and pulled it around her.

For a moment, Britt thought he detected a slight sagging of her shoulders and her hand trembled as she covered her eyes. He would have knelt down and drawn her into his embrace again if she hadn’t warned him with a dire prediction.

"Tomorrow you’ll understand," she sighed. "Tomorrow you’ll see for yourself. We’ll have to cover the story."

Britt clenched his teeth and stomped out of the room.

* * *

Catherine found frozen bagels in the refrigerator. She toasted one for herself and then heard footsteps in the bedroom above the kitchen, so she toasted another one. She searched in the cabinets and found a jar of instant coffee. She would need two cups to fortify herself for what lay ahead of her. As she remembered her vision a chill gripped her. The scene she witnessed had terrified her but she knew that the aftermath could only have been hideous. Fortunately, she had been spared from viewing it because Britt had called to her across the vast abyss. She wondered how had he done it.

A terrible ache welled inside her. Maybe Britt had been able to draw her back from the prison of darkness because he stood on the precipice of death himself. She shuddered.

Sitting down at the card table in Britt’s kitchen, she took in several slow, deep breaths. She had hoped to learn in her visions the details of her uncle’s death, but she had been witness to yet another untimely end. She cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes. How she wished there was a magic potion that could take the horror away.

The cry of a gull outside startled her from her misery. She watched the bird take off and glide across the channel toward the old shack she and Britt had found in the marsh. She shivered at the thought that Aunt Evelyn might have killed her own husband. Catherine had never been able to read Aunt Evelyn’s thoughts. The reserved woman’s ideas had always been locked safely away.

A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and Catherine’s hopes lifted as a new idea came to her. When Britt viewed the scene of the crime today, he would be convinced of her ability. Then, she could tell him . . .

She shook her head. No, she couldn’t tell him. And it wouldn’t do a bit of good anyway. He would die, just as Uncle Mike had died, just as the man last night had certainly died.

She heard Britt’s footsteps heading toward the kitchen and her spine stiffened. Last night, in his arms, she had almost opened her heart to him. He had called to her across the great abyss and she had reached for him. Held against his chest, she had felt she belonged there. He stirred up a longing in her that became harder and harder to resist. But she must stand firm. Britt Jenkins had no future in this world.

He entered the kitchen wearing his jeans and a T-shirt. A lurch of excitement sped through her before she could fight it down. Her face felt heated, but she managed a cool greeting.

"You have circles under your eyes," he said, a scowl fixed firmly on his face.

Catherine clamped her jaw firmly together. So. The war was still on. "You have bags under your eyes," she retorted.

He blinked as if her reply surprised him. "How could I sleep knowing that you might go into another coma--"

"That was a vision," she retaliated.

He glared at her with his dark eyes smoldering. "I’m going out to buy the papers. Do you need anything?"

Yes, her heart cried out. She needed to touch him and to have him caress her as he had done so willingly several hours ago. But she sat as if she had been carved from oak, giving him a wooden, "No."

He banged the door as he went out, hopped into his sports car, slammed that door, too, and sped away. Catherine's shoulders sagged. She couldn’t stay here, and yet she had no place else to go, until her first paycheck--or maybe the second. She didn’t need an apartment, just a furnished room in the house of a stranger would be sufficient. She clasped her hands together to stop their trembling. What would a stranger think of her nightly agonies?

An intense cloud of darkness suddenly touched her heart and she felt drawn to look toward the Taylors' house. Out of the back door came three men, dressed in dark suits and wearing sunglasses. She didn’t need to see their faces to know that they were the same three men she had seen in her vision last night. The taint of death clung to them despite the walls separating her from the men. The scent of blood and corruption had her covering her mouth as a wave of sickness washed over her. Who were they and what were they doing in her uncle’s house?

Catherine fought against her revulsion. Could these men be professional murderers? Had Aunt Evelyn hired them to kill her husband? Had they come to collect their payment? The three stepped into a black Lincoln and backed out of the driveway. As soon as Catherine saw them head south on Main Street, she dashed out the door, jumped into her car, and followed them.

* * *

The morning edition of The Eagle had a bold, black headline that hit Britt with such force, he swore aloud in the candy shop. A photo of a much younger Catherine wearing handcuffs was accompanied by the words, "Mullaney’s Daughter, Ex-Con." Heddy Frazier, Britt’s former wife, had the byline on the story, so he didn’t doubt for a moment that every word had been thoroughly researched and not a single one would be subject to libel. Heddy wrote like a dedicated muckraker but she knew every loophole in the book.

With The Eagle as the sole competitor of The Daily Press, Heddy’s story could do major damage to Joshua’s careful plan to boost subscriptions with the addition of his star reporter.

Britt slapped his change on the counter. Damn. If Catherine’s reputation had been dragged through the mud, Britt knew Joshua would give him the job of trying to salvage whatever was left of her worth as a journalist. His head started to throb.

"You got aspirin?" he asked the woman behind the counter.

She handed him a box. Britt slapped down some bills and walked out of the store, staring at the picture of Catherine, a scrawny kid with fear written all over her face. And those huge eyes staring straight out at him.

Maybe Joshua would fire her. A few days ago, that prospect would have delighted Britt, but today a little pain stabbed at his heart at the thought that Catherine would be hurt and even worse, she might choose to leave Gull Haven.

He took a deep breath. So what? Why should I miss her? After all, she insisted she had visions. He gave a derisive little snort. Next thing you know, she’ll be writing the stories before they happen.

He looked up from the paper to see a sleek black Lincoln whiz by, followed by what looked to be Catherine’s aging gray Caprice. What the hell was she doing? His heart thundered. Maybe someone had phoned the house and she’d heard about the story splashed on the Eagle’s front page. Could she be running away?

Without another thought he was in his car, following her.

* * *

Catherine had no idea where she was but she didn’t like the look of it. The black Lincoln had turned down a dirt road into a marshy area. The reeds grew so tall, Catherine couldn’t see beyond the bends in the road. She had noticed several other muddy turnoffs where the black Lincoln could have hidden. The men must have easily guessed she had tailed them. That’s why they had led her there. They could quickly dispose of her and no one would ever know what had become of her.

She gulped hard as her skin crawled with goose bumps. She slowed the car. Obviously, for the best escape, she should back up. If she had scribbled down the license plate number she could track down the thugs, but she hadn’t thought about it until the car disappeared. Besides, she had run out of the house without a pencil or a piece of paper.

Muttering to herself about her own stupidity, she threw the gear into reverse and slowly inched back the way she had come. As she crept along the muddy track, that familiar and dreaded icy chill seeped through her until every hair on her head prickled as the warning shouted inside her head. Get out!

"I am trying," she mumbled out loud. Her hands shook on the wheel as she maneuvered the car around a twisting curve. In her rearview mirror she caught a flash as the sun bounced from some reflective object. Squinting, she gasped as she realized the ray of light had come from a chrome bumper. The black Lincoln waited in the road directly behind her.

She yanked the gear into drive and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The sound of her engine was drowned out by the big Lincoln as it revved up. Booming like a Boeing jet about to take off, it raced after her and sent terror pouring into her every nerve. Could she outrun it? She had to try!

Adrenaline shot through her as she hung onto the wheel and plowed recklessly through the maze, but the Lincoln remained on her tail. The road became two narrow tracks. She bounced along the uneven surface, sped around blind curves, and hoped she wouldn't smash into another car coming at her in the opposite direction. She didn't swing the wheel far enough on one turn and mowed down a whole section of tall swamp reeds, but she didn't lose the Lincoln.

The car crashed into a deep puddle and muddy water went flying everywhere. It covered the windshield, obliterating her view for a moment while she fumbled to turn on the wipers. The water slowed her down and her panic rose as the wheels spun in the mud. Gunning the motor, she was thrown left and right as the car fishtailed. At last, the wheels caught on solid ground and she was jerked back as she flew off again, racing through the waving marsh grass.

She groaned when she realized how completely the windows had been coated with mud. She couldn't spot the Lincoln. She couldn't see anything other than the small section the wipers had cleared. She had no idea whether the men in the Lincoln intended to continue the pursuit, or if they had tired of the cat and mouse game--for now. However, she did not plan on stopping to wipe off the glass and find out.

She hit a long, straight portion of the road and saw a fork ahead. Her sweaty palms slid on the wheel as she winced. What should she do? What if one path turned out to be a dead end? Or worse--what if the three men behind her had friends waiting to ambush her?

Heart pounding, she clasped the Celtic cross at her neck and prayed for guidance. Left. The word popped into her mind. Catherine swung the wheel in that direction.

Immediately, the reeds on her right disappeared. Beside the road a small branch of the river sparkled in the new day. This section of the road had been paved with crushed shells. Ahead, she could see the wooden framework of a new condominium complex. The sight of a bulldozer pushing against a pyramid of orange soil and a dump truck piling up another mound sent Catherine’s heart soaring. There were people here--people who could help her.

She sped directly toward the bulldozer across a flat area. She plowed over a number of stakes, tied with brilliant orange ribbons, as she made a beeline for the bulldozer. Before she could reach her destination, a flash of blue shot out from the side to block her path. With squealing wheels kicking up a cloud of orange dust, a blue sports car pulled directly in front of her and screeched to a halt.

Catherine’s heart stopped. She slammed her foot on the brake and came to a stop inches from the car. Sagging back against the seat, she closed her eyes in utter exhaustion. This is it.

Someone opened her door. Catherine kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to see any blood--especially her own.

"What the hell are you doing?" a familiar voice growled.

Catherine gasped and opened her eyes. Britt! They would get him, too!

"Get down!" she yelled. "They’ll shoot you!" She yanked at him, trying to pull him inside her car. He didn’t budge. He stared at her and sighed.

"Should I call 911?" he asked softly.

Catherine blinked. He thinks I’m nuts. Insane. Ready for the men in the white coats. The ideas in his mind came clearly to her and she shivered. He’s thinks I’m beautiful, but I’ve snapped. Pity clouded his gray eyes.

What happened to the black Lincoln? She stuck her head out the door and ventured a quick glance behind her. Nothing. She stepped out of the car and scanned the area, looking for the flash of gleaming chrome. Nothing. Where were they? Hiding just in back of the reeds?

She turned her gaze on her thoroughly mud-encrusted car. She felt Britt’s arms come around her.

"It’s okay. There’s a real nice place where you can rest."

Warmth flooded through her. She wanted to stay there, comforted in his embrace. She could barely think with him so close. His thoughts replaced her thoughts. He touched her--he wanted her. She touched him--she wanted him. But the discordant note remained. He believed that she was a mental case. She shoved him away.

"I don’t need a rest and I’m not crazy. I saw three tough-looking men walk out of Aunt Evelyn’s house right after you pulled out of the driveway. They got into a black Lincoln and I followed them to the dirt road in the reeds back there. Except, somehow they turned around and started following me!"

He didn’t buy a single word. Catherine’s mouth went dry as his mind tumbled into hers. Mental hospital. It didn’t give her much solace that his hand shook slightly as he raked it through his hair. She sensed he sought for a way to gently coax her into committing herself. If she told him the three men were the men from her vision, he’d put a straitjacket on her right now.

Catherine cleared her throat. "Well. They’re gone now. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the plate number. I’d better get off to work." She straightened her jacket, licked her lips and gave him a tight smile. She turned to step into her car, but his hand clamped down on her arm.

"Did anyone call you after I left?" His eyes darkened and a new fear crept up her spine.

"No." She shrugged off his hand. The grim lines around his mouth deepened.

"You get in my car," he commanded.

"What? And leave mine here? No way." She jumped into the driver’s seat, but he wrenched her hand away from the ignition.

"I’ll ask the construction workers over there to keep an eye on the car for you. It will be quite safe here." The smile on his face didn’t match the hardness in his voice. "Besides, we agreed last night that I would drive you to work."

Catherine shut her eyes. He intended to drive her straight to the emergency room.

His car phone rang. He dropped her hand.

"Lock your car," he ordered before racing to answer his phone.

If she drove away, she would bolster his belief in her madness. If she behaved rationally, she stood a slim chance of convincing him that she wasn’t paranoid. After all, Britt had been totally convinced that somebody had aimed a rifle at her. So having three men chase her didn’t seem too outrageous--especially since they had just come from Aunt Evelyn’s.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine got out of her car and locked the door. She glanced cautiously at the reeds, but didn't see any movement there. She walked around Britt’s car and slid into the passenger seat.

Britt handed the phone to Catherine. "It’s Joshua and he wants to talk to you--about this." He tossed the morning edition of The Eagle into her lap.

Catherine gasped as she stared at the sixteen-year old waif she had been. All the hurt and desperation of that trying time flooded over her. She swallowed hard and forced down all the emotions that threatened to swamp her.

How could anyone understand what she had gone through? She had been so young. It had been her sixteenth birthday. She had dreamed of candles on a cake, but that day, she had come home from school to find her father less rational and more violent than he had ever been before. He called her by her mother's name. He screamed about witches and hands. Terrible bloody hands!

All she had wanted to do was get her hands on a new experimental medicine that might cure him, even if she had to steal it.

She clutched the phone and fought for calm. That's when her visions had started. That very night. She believed she was going crazy, too.

She couldn't tell that to Joshua. So in a very cool and even voice, she gave Joshua an edited version of the truth.

Chapter Twelve

Waiting for the verdict in Joshua King’s office made Britt squirm. Joshua decided to put on quite a show and while Britt hoped the display was for Catherine’s benefit, he couldn’t be sure. The boss sighed deeply, put his hands over his eyes, and stayed in that meditative position for what seemed an eternity. With the hush in the room, Britt’s breathing sounded loudly in his own ears. Would Catherine’s future with the Daily Press be cut short?

Britt thought of the article he had done on Catherine. He hadn’t researched enough. If only he had learned of the arrest in Catherine’s background. Why couldn’t she have mentioned it? He glared at her as she sat beside him. She sat with her eyes closed, unruffled by her current state of affairs. But Britt knew her well enough by now to detect some not-so-subtle signs of tension. While she hadn’t cried or gone through any dramatics, her hands remained clasped so tightly together that the knuckles turned white. She had related the details leading up to her arrest in a cool, calm voice, but her spine continued to be as rigid as if it had been formed from stainless steel.

The minutes ticked by and Joshua didn’t move. The strain began to weigh heavily on Britt’s shoulders. He massaged the back of his neck to ease the knots. He had an overwhelming desire to clasp Catherine’s hands in his own and stroke them until her tension eased. He closed his eyes and remembered the way she'd felt in his arms, fresh from her nightmare.

After listening to Catherine’s story, Britt had decided she had a right to be at least a little crazy. At the age of sixteen, he had been playing basketball and dating the captain of the cheerleading squad, but Catherine had the responsibility of caring for her very ill father. Her uncle could have helped her a whole lot more. Catherine said her uncle didn’t want the world to know that Ed Mullaney had Alzheimer’s disease. But hell, even the city should have done something. Somebody should have put her father in a home and taken her in. She should have had foster parents.

He opened his eyes to glance at her only to discover her soft blue eyes studying him. He shifted uneasily in his chair. Her brow was marred with little furrows. If he could smooth those away . . . Then she ran her tongue along her bottom lip and a sudden shaft of heat went zinging through Britt.

He swung his head around and feigned interest in the antique printing press alphabet that hung on the wall while his fingers drummed a tattoo on the chair. Could he believe her? Catherine claimed she had pled guilty to a drug charge because the wily lawyer her uncle had hired told her it would be easier for her that way.

Damn. Maybe she had used drugs as a kid. That would mess up her mind. Her "visions" could be hallucinations.

Joshua cleared his throat, put his hands down on the desk, and addressed Catherine. "I think the best way to handle this would be simply to tell our readers what you told me. Except, perhaps, to play on the emotion more--I know that might be painful, but, Britt, you can help her with that. Detail the strain of caring for an Alzheimer’s patient. Emphasize the desperation. I don’t think it should be too difficult to win the sympathy of our readers."

A surge of euphoria rushed over Britt. He gripped the arms of his chair. He shouldn’t react this way. He shouldn’t care whether Catherine kept her job or not. How could he trust someone who claimed to be psychic? Someone who had acted strangely all morning? He shot up from his chair and began pacing the cluttered office.

"All right. The idea is to have those readers going through a whole box of tissues in one sitting."

"No." Catherine replied quietly. "I was wrong. I fully intended to rob that pharmacy. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances were. It was illegal."

Britt stopped pacing. "We aren’t going to tell everyone to go out and commit a crime! We just need to point out the extenuating circumstances--otherwise, your career as a journalist is finished!" Her face blanched and Britt instantly regretted being so blunt.

Joshua shook his head. "There’s no reason to say that. She was a juvenile at the time. Catherine can do very well for herself. Today the Eagle will sell more papers than the Daily Press, but tomorrow--who knows?" He gave Catherine a smile. She loosened the grip on her hands. Then Joshua looked at Britt and shrugged. "Too bad Heddy Frazier isn’t on our side."

At the mention of his ex-wife’s name, Britt’s fury escalated. He clenched his fists and thought of ramming them both into the wall. But the police scanner in Joshua’s office crackled to life with the report of a break in. With a rush of excitement, Britt leaned over and turned up the volume.

"913 River Road! That’s the Mohrs’ estate!" he shouted.

"I want the feature on Catherine ready by 2 p.m.," Joshua’s steely tone carried over the sound blaring from the scanner.

"It’ll be there--ahead of time," Britt gave him a mock salute and dashed for the door. "Let’s go, Catherine!"

* * *

While the sight of the quantity of blood splattered around the mansion sickened her, Catherine felt like shaking some sense into the men investigating the crime. It frustrated her to see the police botch up the evidence.

She overheard one cop mutter to another as they bent over some bloody footprints on the patio.

"Judging from the footprints, I’d say three men were involved--"

"Four!" she blurted out. "Go back inside! There’s a different print, one of them had on a pair of Nike running shoes."

The two policemen glared at her. "Aren’t you Ed Mullaney’s daughter, the ex-con?" One of the policemen sneered.

The shock of those words felt like a slap in the face, but Catherine wouldn’t allow the remark to wound her too deeply. After all, she had come a long way in six years. Right now, it was more important to catch the perpetrators of this heinous crime.

She ducked under the yellow plastic police line. "Now look," she pointed out. "These fellows were all wearing those heavy work boots with that deeply ridged tread, but come on inside and you can see the Nike print."

Instead of following her through the patio door, they clamped their hands on her arms. "Just a minute, Mullaney. You don’t cross that line--ever--unless you want to talk to the judge about your crazy ideas."

Catherine’s heart raced but she gave the police an ingratiating smile. "Hey. I didn’t look at the print myself. The guy collecting the blood samples told me about it."

"He didn’t get here yet." The hand on her right arm squeezed with the deliberateness of a vise.

"Then it must have been the detective." She winced but her grin never dimmed.

"You wouldn’t be referring to me, would you Miss Mullaney?" A deep voice growled behind her.

Catherine recognized the voice of Detective Jamison and a chill went up her spine. "Good morning, detective. No, it wasn’t you, some other detective, a rather short fellow with a trench coat."

"How theatrical," he deadpanned. "You guys get back to work, I’ll escort Miss Mullaney out of here."

To Catherine’s relief, her arms were released. She tried to rub some life back into them as she turned to face Detective Jamison.

"I know how important it is not to disturb the scene of the crime. I took a course in forensics."

The detective’s eyes only narrowed further.

"It’s just that there’s this other print and those two officers seemed to have missed it. I don’t want those men running around Scot free and getting away with murder."

The undisguised menace in the detective’s eyes made Catherine shudder.

"Don’t you ever disturb another investigation again. Otherwise, you’ll be reading the newspaper in the county jail instead of writing for it." His rumbled threat shot cold fear into Catherine’s heart.

"There you are, Catherine. I’ve been looking all over for you," Britt called out from the other side of the police line. "And Detective Jamison, what a pleasant surprise. How nice to see the two of you chatting together."

Britt didn’t have a trace of irony in his voice but as he sauntered closer, Catherine could see the flint darting out of his eyes at her, yet his words continued on with cheerful alacrity. "Mr. and Mrs. Mohr were so kind and told me all about their strange experience. Imagine coming home and finding your house burglarized and enough blood splattered around to assume that someone has died. However, there isn’t a body. Well, that certainly gave the Mohrs a feeling of relief."

"You and your protege better make yourselves scarce," Jamison warned.

"That’s exactly what we intend to do, don’t we, Catherine?" From Britt’s tone Catherine knew he wouldn’t put up with an argument.

Nevertheless, she doubted whether the police would be able to piece this crime together correctly without help. It angered her to think that the criminals would get away--especially since they may have killed her uncle, too.

She scanned the area. "I left the tape recorder somewhere here on the patio. Over there on the balustrade, I think." She pointed to a spot nearest a sharp drop that led down to the small beach by the river. It wasn’t the path the burglar had used. The abrupt incline and the lack of cover made it a bad choice for his purposes, but for her, it was ideal. She walked over to the balustrade with Jamison following closely behind her.

"Darn. Someone knocked it over." She glared at the detective with what she intended to appear as accusation. Jumping to the top of the concrete railing she dove off the other side, screamed, and started rolling, awkwardly she hoped, down the hill. Unsure of whether she had caused enough commotion, she attempted a few more bloodcurdling screams as she slid downward.

She landed on the soft sand at the bottom of the slope only ten feet from the spot where the small sailboat had been drawn up on the shore. Although the tide had come in and gone out, above the waterline the telltale shape of a boat hull still remained.

Britt reached her first, having taken her same route. "Are you all right?" True worry creased his brow.

"Yes," she whispered. Then she added in a voice loud enough to carry across the width of the river, "I think my ankle’s broken. I can’t walk."

Surprise widened Britt’s eyes before the dawn of understanding lit up in his face. He growled low, "You damned little actress. What the hell are you up to now?"

Catherine shot him a stinging look and moaned, loudly. "Ohhh, the pain. Call 911, hurry!"

"You’re overacting. Try being more subtle," he commented as he bent down and ran his hand along her leg. Catherine gasped as a river of heat followed the path of his touch. He raised a single brow and gave her a speculative look just as Detective Jamison and his two officers came crashing through the underbrush.

"M-my ankle. It hurts so bad," Catherine heaved a huge sob. She never could get the tears to flow, but her sobs were usually first rate.

"I think she twisted it--I don’t think it’s broken," Britt told the detective.

"But I can’t walk!" Catherine cried. Britt rolled his eyes in obvious disgust.

One of the other officers bent down. "Looks fine to me," he scowled.

"But I’ve never had such pain before," Catherine wailed. Then she gazed into the officer’s eyes with her best pleading expression. "Maybe if I lean on you, I could get up the hill again."

"Leave her here, officer, that way we can both get more work done," Britt’s tone had a bitter edge.

Catherine felt her cheeks flush with fury.

"Hey, detective, come over here!" the other officer shouted. "Looks like somebody pulled a boat up here. That could explain how the perps got in and out. The neighbors on both sides swore they didn’t see any cars. And the gate hadn’t been tampered with."

The officer beside her jumped up to see the new clue. "I’ll be right back, miss," he promised.

Catherine closed her eyes and sighed, "Bingo." Then her world went suddenly upside down as Britt yanked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Landing on his hard, broad muscles knocked the wind out of her and viewing the landscape from a skewed position made her dizzy. He clutched her knees with one hand while his rock-hard biceps held her waist firmly in place on his shoulder. Her head hung down his back. He climbed half way up the hill before she caught her breath and attempted to fight back.

Catherine pummeled his narrow hips. "Put me down!"

"Your ankle’s broken, as I recall," he rumbled dangerously.

"That was only a ruse and you know it."

"I’m sure you must have hurt some other part of your anatomy rolling down that hill," he continued with an ominous snarl.

"I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me! I had to trick them into finding out where the boat had been. They’re botching up this whole investigation! They wouldn’t listen to me when I told them there were four men involved."

He fell silent. Catherine felt his muscles tense and his hands grip her more firmly.

"I know you think I’m crazy, but I saw everything that happened here--well, not the final blow because you called me back and I really appreciate that." If he could only be there to lead her out of the abyss every time it swallowed her up. If he could only be there to cling to after she suffered another glimpse of the future. Catherine gulped down a sob. With Britt she could only count on the present.

When they reached the patio, Britt set her on her feet. She swayed dizzily, and he steadied her.

"Are you sure you’re all right?"

"I don’t like being upside down," she retorted.

"I’ll remember that." The corner of his mouth turned up. The big oaf obviously enjoyed torturing her.

"Where’s the tape recorder?" he asked.

"In your car," she answered curtly.

"Good. Let’s hurry, we’ve got a deadline to meet."

"I know." She hurried after Britt as he jogged over to his car. Watching his grace and speed made her heart feel heavy, for all his strength wouldn’t help him. He wouldn’t be meeting one of his deadlines soon. The thought fell like the weight of a heavy black pall on her shoulders.

* * *

Britt read the copy on the screen one last time. Damn. Raw emotion lodged in his throat. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair, his objectivity close to being destroyed. Oh, he knew Catherine hadn’t told him everything. The whole thing didn’t make much sense. Her uncle had cared for her, yet he had shouldered her with an awesome responsibility for one so young. And Catherine defended her uncle’s position. She felt he was right in doing everything to keep the public unaware of Ed Mullaney’s decline.

Britt glanced at the blinking cursor. Still, if one ignored the holes in Catherine’s tale, the story should have readers of the Daily Press sobbing out loud--unless they had switched over to buying the Eagle.

He straightened in his chair. Hell. He was dueling with his ex-wife again. He ought to call her and see what surprises she had in store for tomorrow’s edition.

He hit the keys to save the story in the memory and then cleared the screen. Yes, he would call Heddy. No harm in fraternizing with the enemy at this point and it might do some good. He frowned as he realized he needed some collateral. Heddy never gave anything away.

Britt stuck his hand in his pocket and took out the photocopy of Mike’s cryptic last message. He unfolded it and stared at the odd times and dates. Clenching his jaw, he nodded his head with approval. It would do. In fact, that little scrap of paper was as good as gold. Heddy would have a ball tracking down Mike’s old flames. As a member of the rich and famous, Heddy had contacts. She also had extra cash if she needed to buy information.

Britt blew out a gust of air. Maybe, in a way, Catherine could be right about the paper. Perhaps one of Mike’s former lovers could point a finger at the murderer or murderess. The police had closed the case, but some of Heddy’s tabloid journalism might get the police annoyed enough to be more thorough. Mike had been a real nice guy. Hell. Mike had even bought tools for Britt to fix up the house. Britt owed him a lot. He couldn’t let Mike’s murderer get away.

* * *

Catherine inserted another reel into the machine. After an hour in the morgue of the Daily Press she learned more about her Aunt Evelyn than she had in the entire fifteen years of the Taylors’ marriage. Probably none of the information would be useful in nailing her uncle’s murderer, but since Aunt Evelyn and Drew had always looked down their noses at her, Catherine was intrigued to learn that their predecessors weren’t exactly as pure as the water from a mountain spring--though they did have plenty of money. They had never worked very hard.

Aunt Evelyn’s maiden name, Kelleher, was as Irish as a serving of colcannon. The Daily Press carried stories of the exploits of the Kelleher clan on a regular basis. Sean Kelleher, Evelyn’s father, had been mayor of Gull Haven for a ridiculous amount of time. Charges brought against him for bribery and fraud never stuck. His reputation never tarnished and while his wildly popular platforms for reelection tended to be strictly conservative, none of his constituents seemed to notice in all those years the discrepancies in what the mayor promised and what he actually accomplished.

Catherine slowed the film and glanced at the headlines on the screen. She knew that somewhere there had to be an explanation of how the Kellehers acquired their fortune. Since Aunt Evelyn’s grandfather built the family home, Catherine focused on the time period of the house’s construction. Due to Uncle Mike’s interest in real estate, he had often talked fondly of the structure as if he had supervised every nail hammered into the frame. He rattled on about the installation of the mahogany woodwork, the stained-glass windows, and the electrical appliances which were the most up-to-date for that time. He claimed the house became quite a curiosity and those not invited to the open house felt snubbed.

Catherine shivered. She could see the smile that would always cross Aunt Evelyn’s face when Uncle Mike got to that part of his story. No doubt he had been fed that nugget by his proud wife.

"What are you looking up now?" Britt interrupted her thoughts.

Catherine started at the question. Engrossed in her quest, she hadn't heard him enter.

"I-I wanted to find out how Aunt Evelyn’s family made their fortune."

A slow smile lit up Britt’s face and a host of tiny flutters unsettled her stomach.

"You don’t know?" he asked.

Catherine put her hand near her waist in an effort to quell the disturbing feeling that seemed to be spreading through her with alarming speed.

"Should I?" She frowned, taking a deep breath. Her whole body began to tingle.

"Are you hungry?" Britt’s brow clouded.

"No!" Catherine turned back to the machine and began to wind up the reel. She had to get away from him. She couldn’t withstand the pull he exerted over her. "I have some studying to do--at the library."

He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. The shock of his touch caused her to tremble. He turned her around to cradle her chin and stare into her eyes, caressing her cheek with his thumb. She momentarily closed her eyes as her insides liquefied.

"You can’t lie to me, remember? I can tell."

Catherine concentrated on keeping her breathing near normal, an almost impossible task since her heart galloped in double time.

His left eyebrow lifted as his gray eyes smoldered. "I’m going to take you to the pub down the street. Most of the gang stops in there after work for a hefty sandwich and a glass of beer." He released her chin and turned off the machine. "We have several things to discuss."

Catherine gulped. She didn’t trust herself to move. Her raw need for him overwhelmed her. How could this be happening to her?

Britt packed the reel away and stored it in the cabinet. "Everyone assumes that Liam Kelleher, Evelyn’s grandfather, made his money rum running. Unfortunately, nobody could ever pin him with the evidence. It took a long time for the wealthy in Rivershire to accept the Kellehers. Of course, when Sean Kelleher married Elizabeth Grayson, he improved his standing in the community. As a child, Evelyn spent a lot of time at the Grayson’s estate in Rivershire and the ancestral home in England."

"How do you know all this?" Catherine wondered, her pulse slowing.

"My ex-wife’s cousin married a Grayson. We attended the wedding at the estate in Rivershire. That’s when I first met Mike. Naturally, he handed me his card in case I ever became interested in acquiring some property of my own." Britt gave a derisive snort. "I didn’t realize at the time how soon I would be needing his services."

"Isn’t your ex-wife the one who wrote that awful article about me in the Eagle?" When Catherine first read the story, she had been stunned. Juvenile records were supposed to be sealed. How had the woman gotten all that information?

Britt eyes sparked. "Heddy’s style tends toward sensationalism but the research that went into that article is first rate. She can run circles around most people when it comes to digging for the truth--which is why I faxed her a copy of that scrap of paper you found on the float."

"What! You didn’t even want to hand that paper over to the police because you were afraid it would ruin my uncle’s reputation and then you hand it to that poison pen woman who trashed my reputation."

"She’s careful. Every word she writes can be verified."

Anger exploded in Catherine’s system, quickly replacing the yearning that had immobilized her. "That woman’s story was the worst example of tabloid journalism that I have seen in a long time! She fully intended to dig a hole and bury me in it!"

"You may still be clawing your way out of that hole tomorrow." Britt’s eye narrowed and a cold finger of fear slid down her spine. "You said yourself that the facts were accurate. We have to hope that we can sway public opinion with the sob story we fabricated today."

Catherine’s heart sank. Fabricated. As if she had concocted a fairy tale. She hadn’t told him everything either. Perhaps if she explained the vision . . . but he wouldn’t believe that.

She frowned. So what. He'd already marked her as deranged and with only half the facts. She snatched up her handbag and tossed her jacket over her arm. She had nothing to lose if she launched into the experience of her first vision while they ate. His opinion shouldn’t bother her, but it did. His touch shouldn’t bother her either, but she couldn’t prevent herself from craving more of the sensations the feel of his fingers caused on her skin. She threw caution to the wind.

"You’re right. We have several things to discuss." She marched out of the morgue with her heels beating a firm, but steady, cadence on the floor.

Chapter Thirteen

The Pen and Ink Pub catered to the employees of the Daily Press. Above every booth hung framed pages of the newspaper with stories signed by the authors. Britt decided to steer Catherine away from the booth festooned with his award-winning article on psychic frauds. No sense in adding fuel to the fire.

His stomach grumbled and he snatched up a bowl of peanuts from the bar put there for "Happy Hour." A group of his colleagues sitting at the bar already showed signs of overindulgence. Britt’s muscles tensed as he noticed the lecherous looks several of the men lavished on Catherine. The carnal gleam in their eyes indicated they had already undressed her in their minds.

Britt clenched his teeth and glared at them. They turned back to their drinks. The sounds of a vociferous meeting of the newspaperman’s guild filtered out from the back room even through the closed door. Britt chose a quiet booth in an alcove a few steps up from the main floor. Catherine slid in opposite him, her eyes wide as she drank in their surroundings.

"Neat place," she commented, studying the Tiffany-style lamp hanging below the framed newspaper on the wall above the table. Her fingers reached out to touch a brilliant sapphire piece of the stained glass. "Blue is my favorite color."

Britt decided that the blue of her eyes was fast becoming his favorite shade, too. He resisted an urge to take her hand in his. They had business to discuss. As her mentor, he must outline her strengths and weaknesses.

The waitress winked at Britt as she whizzed by with the menu.

Britt winked back. "We know each other intimately." He chuckled, handing a menu to Catherine.

Catherine’s suddenly fierce gaze made him pause. Her deadly serious expression unnerved him. He bent his head to study the menu.

"You’re a big tipper and she’s grateful," Catherine reported. "She’s married and has three kids."

A surge of anger swept through Britt. So. Catherine wanted to play games. Well, he had a mean slam-dunk and he didn’t doubt he could cream her with one shot.

"Good guess. She wears a wedding band," he replied. Clamping his mouth shut, he felt the nerves twitch in his jaw.

Catherine stared at the menu. "The children’s ages are five, seven, and eight. The five-year old has Down’s syndrome, which explains your generosity. And the best thing in the house is the Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich. I’ll have that." She put the menu aside. "Remember, I’m paying you back and you better accept it."

He read the challenge in the lift of her brows. Hell. This was not a game, this was all out war.

"Names?" he asked.

Catherine closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Susan Waters. Husband, John. Children: Samantha--Sammy, the eight-year old; John Jr., the seven-year old; and Tara, the five-year old."

Britt smiled. "Nice try. I did an article on children with Down’s syndrome which included the story of Susan’s family."

"But I didn’t read it." Catherine blinked.

"Sorry, I don’t buy that. You’ve been spending a lot of time in the morgue, browsing through past issues of our paper," he reminded.

A rosy stain bloomed on her cheeks. She turned her head and stared at the other diners, her mouth set in a grim line.

Gotcha. Britt gloated to himself. That should end it. He opened his menu and drummed his fingers on the table, a satisfied grin lifting the corners of his mouth. The Philly Cheese Steak Sandwiches served at the Pen and Ink Pub had a well-deserved reputation. Somebody must have written them up in the restaurant guide.

"The owner of this pub is behind the bar. His name is Al. He came to your mother’s funeral," Catherine said with a sigh, turning to face him. "She committed suicide. I’m sorry."

Shock numbed him for a moment, like a direct hit on the solar plexus, but logic came rushing back in to shove away the hurt.

"Somebody told you that," he growled.

Her shoulders slumped. She lifted her napkin from the table to lay it in her lap. Her face lost its rosy glow. Britt felt a flicker of apprehension as he detected the weariness in her movements. Then he reminded himself it was all an act. Catherine’s hocus-pocus bore a striking resemblance to the tricks of the many other charlatans he had exposed.

The waitress returned to take their order. As soon as she removed the menus and hurried off, Britt leaned on his forearms. He took a deep breath and spoke in his most benign tone.

"I have to discuss some small areas where I believe you can make an improvement . . ."

Her eyes became like brittle ice and her hands clenched together tightly. Britt halted. He didn’t like to see her so tense. He remembered the softness and longed to touch her again to feel the warmth. Besides, her writing shone with brilliance and he couldn’t fault her on her technique.

He cleared his throat. But he could warn her about putting on another inappropriate performance. "About your dramatic presentation this morning--aside from your very poor acting--"

She interrupted with a voice like the sharp edge of shattered glass. "Whether my acting rated five stars or one, I had to get those policemen to see the evidence they would otherwise have missed. And I succeeded."

"You are supposed to report the stories, not create them."

She said nothing, but her eyes burned like lasers. He tossed some peanuts into his mouth to avoid the heat of her gaze. He didn’t handle criticism well himself and knew first hand the sting of it. His conscience pricked him as scenes from a number of his own more daring exploits crossed his mind. Yes, he’d created a number of dramas himself in the call of duty, and he had the scars to prove the danger inherent in using unorthodox methods to gather the news.

When Catherine first tumbled down the hill this morning, Britt turned numb with fear. At the very least, he expected to find her lying at the bottom with a broken neck. The relief that flowed through him when he realized it was simply a dramatic performance could not counter his anger.

He scooped up another handful of peanuts and crushed them in his fist. She could have seriously hurt or even killed herself with that stunt. He intended to make sure she never attempted anything like that again.

* * *

So far, Catherine hadn’t surmounted a single hurdle despite the fact that the waitress’ mind read like a book and Al, the owner behind the bar, wore his heart on his sleeve. None of it mattered. Britt would continue to explain it all away with his absolutely sensible deductions. She didn’t know everything, after all.

She took a deep breath and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Baring the worst to him would make no difference. She had to try though, even if it would be painful.

"There is something I didn’t tell you."

Britt sat up straight and glared at her. "Damn," he said through clenched teeth. "I knew it!"

Catherine sighed and shook her head. "You needn’t worry. I don’t think you’ll see it written up in the Eagle. I realize that nothing I say will change your mind about my psychic ability but I wanted to tell you how my mother was murdered. I was two years old at the time and I didn’t remember it until that day I tried to break into the pharmacy when I was sixteen. That’s when my visions first started."

Catherine swallowed hard as she watched the thundercloud form on Britt’s brow. She felt as if she'd stepped into dark water where, at any moment, she would find herself floundering with the tide above her head. Suddenly hesitant, she began slowly, trying her best to keep her emotions in check.

"I had a knife I had taken from the restaurant next to the pharmacy I intended to rob. The only way in seemed to be the steel doors that covered the entrance to the cellar and I knelt down to try and wedge the lock open with the knife."

She found Britt's stare far too penetrating. The heat of that gaze flowed out to her, distracting her with other images. She glanced down at the table and fingered the placemat.

"A puddle of cold water on the doors trickled on my fingers and the light of the moon shone on the lock. I felt drawn to look at the moon, and when I did, I became dizzy--but I wanted to get that medicine for my father, so I turned back to the lock."

"In the small puddle of water I saw the moon's reflection and I touched it with my hand. As the ripples spread in the puddle a shiver ran all through me, numbing first my hands, then my arms, then my whole body. I found myself in a dark, empty void--and a roar filled my ears as I was sucked backward through space."

She didn't have to look at Britt to see the contempt on his face. She could feel it. Courageously, she went on with one of Uncle Mike’s odd little sayings floating through her mind for comfort. Always remember, you’ve got fairy blood in your veins.

"It was as if I was spinning. I suddenly stopped and found myself in a cottage. I knew it was the cottage in Ireland and that I was two years old. I heard my mother screaming, but I knew I had to be quiet because Mama had told me not to make a sound. I could see through a little crack in the door. There was a man in the room with Mama but it wasn't my father. The man hit her again and again until her screams stopped. I could see the blood on his hands and when he put his hand up against the side of his head, I could see that part of his ear had been cut off. "

The gruesome memory nearly paralyzed her. She closed her eyes and wished she could blot the scene out of her mind forever. With an effort, she folded her arms tightly against her chest and fought to keep an even tone in her voice.

"He picked up Mama and carried her out of the house. I don't know how long I stayed in the closet, but finally I came out. Blood covered the floor and in a basket by the door, I found Mama's hands--just her hands."

Catherine's voice fell to a whisper while flashes of the bloody scene haunted her. She wished she had ordered a shot of strong Irish whiskey instead of an icy cola. With difficulty, she cleared her throat and finished.

"I found myself back in the black void after that. I came to on the metal doors of the pharmacy, thoroughly convinced that I had lost my mind."

She opened her eyes, but she could not bear to meet Britt’s scrutiny. She kept her gaze lowered, shivering as she felt the blood drain from her face and a dark evil press down upon her. Despite the passing years, the menace seemed as close as ever, breathing a chill into her bones and waiting to swallow her up--as the dark waters of the channel had nearly claimed her before Britt’s rescue.

Britt made no comment. The waitress arrived with their order and Catherine realized that she didn’t have any appetite left. She dared to watch Britt as he bit into his cheese steak. He chewed with a preoccupied expression, apparently digesting her words along with the food.

"Hypothermia," he stated finally. "You said you were drenched and cold. Obviously, you became irrational, probably hallucinated the whole thing."

She heaved a sigh. Had she really expected to convince him? No. She lifted her gaze and stared at the handsome man opposite her. At least his mind didn’t have images of the mental institution running through it. In fact, the only thing occupying his thoughts at the moment happened to be the sandwich he continued to devour with hearty gusto.

She smiled wanly. She didn’t think she would miss the sparks of lust that he almost constantly directed at her--but she did.

She shrugged and lifted her own sandwich. So much for Uncle Mike’s belief that the fairy "gifts" she possessed would magically convince even the most serious of doubters. She had listened, enthralled, when she was a child to Uncle Mike’s tale of a fairy chief who had carried off one of the beautiful Taylor children for a wife, but the only "evidence" he had to substantiate his story consisted of the ability of all Taylor women to cast spells that any mortal man could not resist.

Catherine looked up at Britt again. Could she wind him around her finger? A tingle of pleasure ran through her before she firmly tossed out the idea. She wouldn’t dare try something so outrageous. Anyhow, she wouldn’t even know where to begin. Uncle Mike claimed he had a book listing some of the mystical charms of the Taylor women, but he also told her that she wasn’t ready to use it yet. Besieged with the visions that plagued her nights, she hoped she would never be ready to develop her powers further. She maintained since the age of sixteen that her fondest desire would be to have a normal life.

"Well how about that? Al hired a piano player," Britt whistled. With his sandwich neatly polished off, Britt stared at Catherine as if she would be his dessert. Her pulse leaped as ripples of excitement reappeared in his eyes and darted across the space between them.

Catherine put her sandwich down and turned her head to catch a glimpse of a man swishing the tails of his tuxedo behind him on the piano bench. As the first strains of a slow song hushed the crowd, several couples crowded onto the tiny dance floor.

"Hey--join me?" Britt covered her hand.

Catherine knew she should refuse but she couldn’t. It would be heavenly to be held by him, even for a few minutes. She felt she deserved some comforting after telling him about her mother’s death and having him pass it off as a case of exposure.

"Just one dance. I’m very tired."

The warm squeeze of his hand promised more than she knew she could handle. When they reached the dance floor and he drew her against him, her body reacted with an intensity that left her breathless.

They barely moved. They couldn’t with all the other couples vying for a small square of the floor. The chill in Catherine’s bones vanished as she pressed up against Britt’s sinewy length. Delicious heat coursed through her and with each languid sway she felt the tempo building within her. She hummed along with the melody. She knew the words, but they were sad--of a love lost, never to return, and Catherine couldn’t bear to remind herself that the man in her arms someday, too, would never return.

She sighed softly, finding it easy to banish the unhappy future while held tightly in Britt’s embrace. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek contentedly against Britt’s hard chest. A tingle of excitement shot through her as she felt Britt’s mouth brush her ear.

"Stop it," he hissed.

Catherine opened her eyes and blinked. "Stop what?" she asked pulling back to look up into his face. His eyes had a glassy appearance, with wide, dilated pupils. She frowned. Fear? Then a bubble of laughter burst from her lips.

"You’re afraid of me." She giggled at the absurdity of it.

Britt practically pushed her away. "I’m going back to the table." He stalked off. Catherine shook her head in amazement and hurried after him. He slid into the seat and downed the rest of his beer.

"Don’t you ever try to hypnotize me again," he growled when he finished off the mug.

"That’s ridiculous! I was dancing because you invited me to join you," she reminded him through clenched teeth. She didn’t know how to hypnotize people! How idiotic!

"I’ve seen it done and I know exactly how subtle it can be. You’re just like all the rest of them." Pure hatred shot out of his eyes now. Catherine gasped at the anger directed at her--well, not exactly only at her, she realized. His fury encompassed all those who claimed to have psychic powers.

"Don’t you group me in with any crazies you’ve met. I never hypnotized anybody but I can’t deny that I’m psychic. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I didn’t have visions." Snatching up her handbag and her jacket, she fought to keep her voice level.

"Thanks for the meal. I’ll see you tomorrow." She had an impulse to run out of the restaurant, but she walked, head high and back straight. She would call a cab and retrieve her car, she decided, though the thought of returning to that marshy area sent a shiver up her spine.

In the vestibule of the pub, Catherine’s fingers trembled as she dug in her handbag for change. She wondered where the three men who had chased her through the marsh were now. Who would they choose as a target tonight? As Catherine picked up the receiver of the telephone and prepared to drop in her coins, someone tapped her on the shoulder. A chill spread through her. She turned and bit back a cry of alarm as Drew took the telephone out of her hand.

"Hello, Catherine," he slurred.

She narrowed her eyes. He’d helped himself to a rather liberal dose of Uncle Mike’s whiskey this time. Though dressed in his usual nautical style, Drew appeared disheveled, and a darkening bruise marred his forehead.

"I thought I’d find you here, rubbing elbows with all the other nosy newspaper reporters. Did you read the Eagle this morning?"

"You!" Catherine clenched her hands. Oh, she should have known. "You gave that awful woman the information."

Drew nodded his head and winked one bloodshot eye. "I told her in strictest confidence--I had no idea she would print it. We’re practically related."

Just as she’d always had difficulty breaking into Aunt Evelyn’s head, Catherine found it nearly impossible to gauge the thoughts that lay behind Drew’s green eyes. There didn’t seem to be any point in asking him why he and his hired hand ran after her last night. She didn’t think it would be wise, at this point, to tell Drew about the vision she had involving that same hired hand.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"To make amends, of course," he grinned. "Buy you a drink."

No matter how cruelly Aunt Evelyn and Drew had treated her, Catherine still considered them family. The thin tie could not be severed overnight. While the evidence against Aunt Evelyn became more concrete and difficult to discount, nothing implicated Drew in any way. If a slim chance remained to heal any old bitterness, Catherine felt inclined to forgive even Drew’s odd behavior of the night before. After all, since she normally had no idea what went on in his mind, perhaps she had only seen what Drew’s employee intended to do to her. And Drew was not involved with the three men who had carried out that grisly murder.

"I think you could use a cup of coffee," Catherine suggested. "And a walk in the fresh air."

With the pub crowded to capacity, Britt had difficulty flagging down the waitress. He swore under his breath when he finally got hold of the bill and counted out his money. If Catherine hadn’t tried hypnotizing him, what had been happening out there on the dance floor? And what was he going to do about it?

Britt sincerely doubted he could behave professionally with a woman who turned him on with the same amount of ease most people had turning on a television. If he didn’t know better, he’d accuse her of carrying a remote control device designed to pump instant heat into his veins.

He couldn’t trust himself to dance with her. He couldn’t trust himself to touch her hand. He definitely would get into serious trouble gazing into her eyes. Was there an explanation? Britt raked his hand through his hair. What did it matter? He had to make sure she didn’t get into trouble. If anything happened to Catherine Fiona Mullaney, Joshua King would have Britt drawn and quartered. Britt had never seen Joshua bend over backwards for anybody as much as he did for Catherine.

As Britt tried to wind his way out through the crowd, Al waved at him from behind the bar. The owner shouted above the din when Britt leaned towards him.

"I saw the young lady in the vestibule talking to a blond fellow wearing a white windbreaker. He seemed familiar but I couldn’t see his face. She went out the door with him."

Britt nodded and thanked Al. The description sounded like Drew. Britt walked outside, glancing around. The mild evening had coaxed plenty of shoppers and strollers onto the sidewalk. Finding Catherine and Drew in the throng wouldn’t be easy. Besides, they might have hopped into Drew’s car. Or sailed away in a boat.

The Pen and Ink Pub sat beside the river, and like many Rivershire restaurants, the pub maintained a dock in the back where patrons could tie up their boat if they happened to develop a strong thirst as they cruised on the water. Britt ran around to the back of the pub. Two cabin cruisers bobbed alongside the dock but he didn’t see Catherine or Drew.

He pounded one fist against his palm and tried to reassure himself that nothing would happen. Drew would probably offer Catherine a lift back to her car. If Catherine found somewhere else to stay, she’d have to return to fetch her clothing. And Britt wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore.

He swung around and headed back to the street, anxiety gnawing his gut. Who was he trying to kid? Drew had already offered to let her sleep on his leaky boat. Somebody had certainly aimed a rifle at her. Though Britt couldn’t be sure that somebody had chased her through the marsh that morning, the terror he saw on her face chilled him to the bone.

While her delusion about her psychic ability might stem from drug use as a teenager, the strain of caring for her father, or the grief of losing her uncle, her ideas could get her into serious trouble.

Britt stood on the street and rubbed his hand over his eyes, seeing her tumble down that hill all over again. She claimed she had to lead the police to a clue. Damn. She scared the life out of him. He narrowed his eyes and started searching in earnest along the street them. Britt clenched his fists. If Drew harmed a single strand of Catherine’s hair, there would be hell to pay.

* * *

"You are in no condition to drive," Catherine glared at Drew, refusing to step into his car. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee."

Drew’s face reddened. "I’m not drunk."

"Touch your nose with your index finger," Catherine suggested.

Drew’s eyes narrowed to thin slits but his lips turned up into an urbane smile. Catherine stiffened as a warning sounded in her brain. She knew that practiced grin, Drew had used it many times in the past--before he tossed a caterpillar down her collar, before he dropped a water balloon on her, and before he painted one of her blouses with black and white stripes.

"I found a place for you to stay. Some friends of mine need a house sitter while they’re on vacation. The place is huge. Twenty-two rooms. And they’ll pay you, but they want to see you first, of course. I’ve already made an appointment with them. We have to be there in twenty minutes."

"Then let me drive." Catherine held out her hand for the keys.

"My Jag? Sorry, the only one who can handle this baby is me." Drew patted the roof possessively before applying pressure to Catherine’s elbow. "You don’t want to be late. This is a great opportunity."

If Drew didn’t have an elaborate practical joke up his sleeve, this really would be a fabulous chance for Catherine. She wished she could scan his thoughts, but though she concentrated intently, she could not visualize any of Drew’s purposes.

A woman stepped up behind Drew, gave him a peck on the cheek and shattered Catherine’s focus. The woman’s hair in tight, blond ringlets defied incarceration in a rhinestone-studded clip. Escaped curly wisps set off her doe-like brown eyes. While a trendy shade of mauve lipstick warmed her generous mouth, the purr in the woman’s voice couldn’t hide the malicious designs that swam in her mind, each one easy for Catherine to decipher. Catherine instantly did not like the woman, and quite clearly, the woman did not like Catherine either.

"Well, well. Drew, what a lovely surprise! How nice I ran into you." She turned and gave Catherine a scathing look. "And here’s Catherine. Isn’t that amazing." The woman gave Catherine a quick scan and obviously found her wanting.

Drew’s smile dimmed momentarily before he flashed it on full power at the woman. "Heddy! You seem to pop up everywhere. Are you on duty or off?"

Heddy? Heddy Frazier! The poison pen woman who had emblazoned the Eagle with Catherine in handcuffs. Catherine’s face burned. She wished she did have long fingernails now so she could draw blood.

"Off--silly," Heddy gave Drew an affectionate pat with a hand decorated in rings displaying the finest assortment of gemstones Catherine had ever seen. Heddy’s long fingernails had tiny stones set into the lacquer as well. "I had some errands to run and I found the most marvelous dress at Edith’s for the Moonlight Ball--you are coming, am I right?"

"I wouldn’t miss it for the world," Drew stated in his bored drawl.

Heddy reached up and touched the bruise on Drew’s forehead--a move that made him grimace. "My, my. Where did you get that?"

"On the boat--from the boom," Drew growled as he pushed her hand away.

"You didn’t duck?" Heddy’s sarcastic laugh grated on Catherine’s nerves.

"I’ll remember next time," Drew replied. He nudged Catherine toward the car. "We’ve got an appointment."

"Oh, don’t let me keep you." The sound of jingling bracelets accompanied Heddy’s enthusiastic wave. "Do give my love to Britt, Catherine."

The snide comment hit Catherine with the power of a pile driver. There could be no mistake in the way she interpreted the remark. While Heddy’s mind teemed with thousands of details, Catherine could easily snatch up the important concepts. Heddy knew where Catherine was staying and she assumed that Catherine and Britt were lovers.

Catherine glared at Heddy and fought to control her tongue. Heddy shot a megawatt smile at Catherine.

"Get in! We’re going to be late," Drew knocked Catherine off balance as he shoved her into the car. Catherine clutched at the car door to break her fall.

"I am not getting in if you’re driving," she got back on her feet and slammed the door. "Give me the keys, Drew!"

A warm hand suddenly gripped Catherine’s shoulder. She turned and saw Britt scowling at Drew.

"You are not going with him." The rumble of Britt’s voice held an undertone of danger and sent shivers up her spine.

"My, my, my!" Heddy exclaimed. "Jealousy--and so soon. But I’m so glad I’ve bumped into you, Britt. I had a question about that paper you faxed to me."

Catherine froze while Heddy dug in her handbag. How could Britt hand that vicious woman such an important paper? Heddy would write a scandalous story and plaster Uncle Mike’s photograph on the front page of the Eagle with some dreadful tabloid headline like "I Couldn’t Satisfy Him."

Heddy retrieved the fax from the depths of her oversized bag and began to unfold it. Catherine whipped it out of the woman’s hands, slipped out of Britt’s restraining hold, and raced away.

As she ran, her mind whirled. Nothing would be solved because she snatched the paper. Britt could simply fax another copy to Heddy. The secret clue in the note had to be translated. Uncle Mike’s murderer could then be apprehended and the awful tragedy put to rest.

Catherine knew what she had to do. She slipped through an alley between two buildings to reach the river. Glancing up, she noticed the last quarter of the moon rising. Her power rose and fell with the cycles of the moon, but to call up a vision even that slight silver crescent would be enough.

Coming to the river’s edge, she dropped down on the soft sand. The water was rising as the tide came in. That, too, would help. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the paper. She took a deep breath and doused her hand in the river. Pulling her hand out, she held it up to the moon’s faint glow. Ice spread through her veins.

She moaned softly as fear poured into her. I must continue. She clenched her teeth together. Plunging her hand back into the river’s edge, she gasped as the blackness began to swallow her up. With the roar of the wild rushing wind, she closed her eyes and fell into the terrible abyss.

Chapter Fourteen

Catherine prayed and waited. While she could shut out the sights in the vast stretches of the abyss, she could not filter out the other sounds that came to her ears as she whirled through the void. From every direction, screaming, like the suffering of souls in agony, sent terror chilling her heart. She could not bear to witness their torture. Though it could be that the shrill cries came from others like her, thrown into the endless chasm, believing they had entered the pits of hell.

Abruptly, all noise ended. Her eyes squeezed shut, Catherine became aware of the smell of brackish water, the peculiar mixture of salt and fresh that occurs in tidal estuaries. She opened her eyes to find she stood deep in oozing mud with chill water flowing all around her. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought she had drowned.

No. This is a vision. She reminded herself that her physical body lay safely on the shore of the river and gradually her alarm subsided.

Runoff from the soil darkened the water. An eel slithered by her and a school of small silver fish turned suddenly, catching the light on their bright scales.

The muffled sound of an engine trawling through the water above her drew her attention upward to the surface. The dark shape of a boat hovered over her, the whirling blades of the propeller foaming the water with hoards of bubbles. The bubbles ceased suddenly as the blades stilled. Catherine heard several dull clunks, which sounded like an oar banging against a wooden hull.

The boat bobbed on the waves, its shape becoming a blurry series of ripples. Catherine flinched as another flurry of bubbles accompanied a large object thrown into the water. Dread, like the ominous tolling of a mourning bell, pounded in her brain as the terrible form sank, drifting closer and closer to her.

She gasped. Despite the pale ocher light that dimmed her sight in the river she clearly recognized the man with the trailing rope anchoring his feet to a concrete block. It was the burglar, still wearing his black clothing, though it now clung to his body.

The concrete block made a soft thud as it landed on the floor of the river beside her. The mud, disturbed by the weight, swirled, rising like great billows of smoke from a fire.

Fighting a wave of nausea, she saw that she could do nothing to save him. He was dead, his sightless eyes frozen forever in the terror of his last moment--his mouth etched with his final scream.

Catherine’s fear spiraled and panic held her rigid as the details became clearer. On his descent to the bottom, his arms had waved above him. Now as he settled into the slimy bed of the river, his arms flailed out toward her in a pleading motion. It was only then she realized he had no hands. Two scarlet ribbons of blood leached into the water where his hands should have been.

Tormented by the gruesome sight, Catherine felt herself on the verge of hysteria. Though she sought to escape from the horror, she remained stuck in the muddy bottom as surely as if she had been weighted down, too. One handless arm brushed against her face and Catherine thrashed in mindless panic, clawing at the flowing element that pressed upon her.

She could not leave. While tumbling into a vision was easy, the flight out managed to elude her every time. Perhaps the reason lay in her point of focus. When the clear light of reason held her in a calm state of balance, she centered her thoughts with ease. When she wanted her freedom from the living nightmares she was usually scared out of her wits. She could not concentrate on anything. She needed something to hone in on, a light in the darkness to guide her, a door. A deep ache settled inside her, a moan lodged in her throat. Britt could bring her back if he would call to her, as he had done before.

But she had run from him and had been successful in eluding him. The ache inside her grew as she realized he did not know where she was now.

The current carried the burglar toward Catherine. He leaned toward her and his arms went around her in a macabre dance of death. Catherine screamed until sweet nothingness ended her agony.

* * *

Britt shifted in the chair hoping to find a comfortable position. In a state of total exhaustion, he didn’t think he would have any problem catching some sleep in the chair in the hospital’s examining room, but he did. Of course, he would open his eyes every now and then to check on Catherine. She’d been wrapped in warmed blankets, but he could still detect the rise and fall of her soft breasts. The black lashes fanned out on her cheeks, where a soft pink tinge had reappeared.

Britt ran his hand through his hair, remembering the sound of her ungodly scream. It completely unnerved him. He followed the sound until her cry led him to the spot by the water where she had collapsed in one of her spooky spells again. When he found her, she looked ashen, barely alive. He scooped her up and ran two blocks to Rivershire Hospital’s emergency room.

The nurse checked all of Catherine’s vital signs which, she claimed, appeared normal. Then the nurse frowned and asked lots of crazy questions about drugs and so on. Grimly, she told Britt it would take a while until the doctor came. The doctor was busy with the victim of an automobile crash whose condition warranted immediate attention.

Catherine stirred and Britt shot out of the chair. He dug under the covers for her hand. Her hand glowed with warmth as it closed around his. Her lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened and scanned the room. Relief flowed through him and he smiled at her.

"How are you?" he whispered.

"Where am I?" she asked with a row of furrows crossing her brow.

"You’re in Rivershire Hospital. I carried you here," he answered.

Catherine started to struggle out of the blankets but Britt pushed her back down.

"What are you doing?" he frowned.

"Leaving! Get your hands off me."

Startled, Britt backed off.

"Of all the nerve." She yanked at the blankets. "Do you know what they charge for emergency room visits? Next time, just let me sleep it off. If you want to be helpful, get me a strong cup of coffee--milk, no sugar."

Britt balked at the order and wagged his index finger at her. "Wait a minute. When I found you out there you were cold and your skin looked gray--you gave an awful shriek, scared the life out of me!" The memory gripped him and he steadied himself by clutching the gurney. "I thought you were dead," he added hoarsely.

She paused in unraveling herself from the twisted blankets. Turning her blue gaze on him, she stared, unblinking, for a full minute.

Damn. She was using that hypnosis trick again. Britt didn’t care. It felt good to lose himself in those sky blue eyes. He reached out to cup her chin in his hand. A small jolt went through him, similar to the flash of built-up static he’d gotten from shuffling across a rug. He chuckled. It isn’t magic--it’s static. Funny how gullible he could be sometimes. But then--finding her collapsed beside the river had been a shock.

The lids came down over Catherine’s eyes and Britt felt as if a cloud passed in front of the sun. She sighed, "It isn’t static."

Britt went rigid for a moment, but he didn’t feel like arguing, not now. He could humor her for the time being--until he had a diagnosis. He smiled. "Perhaps it’s a short in the wiring."

Catherine opened her eyes again and flashed a challenging grin at him. "Yours or mine?"

"I’m not sure." He let her chin go and slid his hand behind her neck, a perilous move and one he knew he should avoid, however, the risk paled in comparison to what her smile promised. He wasn’t a saint and never intended to be one. Tempted, he bent down closer.

"I think I’d better do a test." He came down softly on her lips, brushing them gently. The brief contact seared him. He drew back, stunned.

"What are the results?" she asked in a breathless whisper.

Britt watched her run her tongue over her lips. A hunger burst inside him, a craving that he could not deny. "I believe this requires further testing even though I’ll have to take some chances," he muttered against the sweet cascade of her hair.

"For the sake of science," her voice trembled.

"Research can be rewarding." He pulled her closer.

"Yes." Her hands reached up to curl around his shoulders.

Britt lifted her against him in a crushing embrace. As before, the kiss they shared could not be compared to any of Britt’s previous experiences. In fact, his mind went blank when he tried to summon up former encounters with other partners as a reference for this study. But a delicate tune played in Britt’s head on his journey to this new world, blocking out memories--bad and good, until it seemed he had only been born now. Everything else had happened on some other plane, in some other reality. His worries flew away like the downy seeds of a dandelion on a summer breeze.

There was only Catherine. The taste of her, the feel of her in his arms, and the promise of delights so wonderful he never gave a single thought to the consequences. Without yesterday or tomorrow to concern him, he joyously reveled in the moment, exploring, teasing, spurred on by shocks of pleasure sending shudders of delicious agony along a river of heat.

Then a cold hand gripped his shoulder.

"Are you administering mouth-to-mouth?"

Britt blinked and turned his head. The doctor had finally arrived. "Ah--no." Britt cleared his throat and attempted to straighten out Catherine’s clothes.

She gently pushed his hands away and laughed. "As you can see, doctor, I’m fine. In fact I feel so good that I am refusing treatment. I want to sign out."

"Don’t listen to her, doc," Britt warned. "She was in really bad shape when I found her and I want to know exactly what the trouble is."

"Are you her husband?" the doctor asked brusquely.

"No . . . but I . . ."

"Significant other?"

"No . . . I work with her," Britt countered.

"Is this a work-related injury?" the doctor scanned the clipboard.

"No . . . but . . ." Britt floundered.

"You wait outside, then. I want to talk to the patient alone." The doctor glared. Clearly, he did not intend to waste any more time.

Britt clamped his jaw together and felt the nerves twitch. Catherine shrugged, smiled, and waved goodbye to him. He did not slam the door on the way out, though he had an overwhelming urge to do so. He paced up and down the hall for a few moments until the nurse came by and suggested that the waiting room would be a more appropriate place for him.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. He saw Catherine at the desk within minutes, signing papers for her release.

"Did he examine you?" Britt asked.

"Yes," Catherine answered, her head bent down over a form. "I’m perfectly normal and in the pink of health."

"You hypnotized him too," Britt muttered under his breath so the nurse wouldn't hear.

Catherine whipped around, fury blazing in her eyes. "I did not! I told you I don’t know how."

"Then what happened?" he asked. The sparks darting out at him were quickly doused as her eyes filled with tears. She bent back over the form, but Britt saw a teardrop splash on the paper before she wiped it away with trembling fingers.

Fear curled around his gut. There was something wrong with her. Something too awful to confess. Something fatal. Something that would have prevented Joshua King from hiring her if he had known about it. A deadly, dark secret, like a time bomb ticking away the minutes until the final explosion.

Ice stabbed his heart as he realized that no matter what illness consumed her, he couldn’t let her go. He’d pulled her from the brink of death and he didn’t intend to let her fade from his life now. Even if she was Catherine Fiona Mullaney--even if she did claim to be a psychic--even if she had hypnotized him into the insane state of possessiveness that now overwhelmed him.

He gripped the counter and squeezed his eyes shut. She called them visions, but to him it appeared to be seizures that plagued her. He owed it to Joshua--and to himself--to discover what disease she had tried to conceal.

He opened his eyes. She had herself in complete control now--her spine rigid, her eyes dry, and her face a mask of calm. Britt would call Heddy to ferret out the information on Catherine’s malady. Though like a stone sinking into the river, doubt settled into the bottom of his heart. Asking his ex-wife for help made him feel like he was selling his soul to the devil.

* * *

Catherine ran her hand over the mud-covered hood of the engine, noticing where the grime had been swept away. A black chill squeezed her heart. Getting in her car and driving it away would be suicide.

"Get in and let’s get going, you have a job to go to, remember?" Britt called out from the window of his car.

Catherine sighed. After she had left the hospital with him, his cold and distant behavior had only made her long all the more for his warm embrace and fiery kisses. She had slept a few hours in his dreary spare room dreaming of nothing else but the sparks that he ignited in every pore of her being.

She tried to cool the heat creeping into her veins at the remembrance of their brief, passionate session in the hospital examining room, but she failed to cool the seething need Britt aroused in her. Nothing but danger awaited her heart if she allowed herself to go on this way, but she knew it was already too late. She had fallen in love with him.

She walked over to his car and spoke in what she hoped sounded like a calm voice. "I’m going to call a mechanic. There’s something wrong with the engine."

He frowned and growled at her. "You didn’t even try to start it."

She shrugged. Sometimes information came to her so easily she forgot that other people didn’t have the same ability as she did. "The brake hoses are cracked and the fluid has leaked all over the ground," she explained. The damage had been done intentionally. She guessed those three men were responsible.

Britt got out of his car and slammed the door. Stalking over to her car, he bent down and peered underneath the engine. He stretched his arm underneath to wipe up some liquid on his fingers.

"Hmmm." He rubbed the fluid between his thumb and index finger. "The gas station on the corner of Main Street and Fifth has a decent mechanic. He operates a tow truck, too."

Britt stood and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his fingers. "Guess we shouldn’t have left it here overnight."

A shiver went up Catherine’s spine. No matter where she parked her car, they would have found it. They knew she had followed them and they intended to frighten her, or guarantee she didn’t squawk. For a moment, recalling the sight of the dead burglar in her vision, she couldn’t breathe. If they wanted, those horrible men could treat her in the same manner as the unfortunate burglar. Or worse.

Catherine stared at her hands. The macabre sight of her mother’s hands in a basket flashed through her mind and made her stomach lurch. She clamped a hand over her mouth. Then the blazing inferno of her uncle’s boat swirled through her consciousness.

Catherine whirled around and started running. She didn’t know where she was headed at first. She only knew she wanted to get away--from everything. She couldn’t stand the horrible images any more and the terrible fear that gnawed at her. She longed to live in a safe, calm world--a place where people didn’t die of unnatural causes, a place where she wouldn’t ever have to view someone’s gruesome demise.

"Catherine!" Britt called after her, but she kept racing away until her legs ached and pain stabbed at her side. Stumbling in deep ruts of earth formed by the giant wheels of an earth-moving machine, she fell to her knees and realized that she had come to rest beside the river. The waves lapping against the shore had drawn her without her even being aware of it.

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek as she gazed out at the water. She would never be free of her own private hell. She would be forever destined to witness the grisly and hideous, imprisoned in the terrifying emptiness of the black abyss. She wiped away the tear with her fingers. The wetness made her nerves tingle, she stared at the river. The vast power flowing before her tempted with a force she felt incapable of resisting. An overwhelming compulsion gripped her as her hand stretched out above the water.

The answers are here, the waves called to her. It is the only way.

"Catherine! What is the matter with you?" Britt yanked her back from the shoreline.

She blinked and breathed raggedly. Britt’s touch had severed the pull of the tide. She collapsed against him, a well of emotion strangling her words. She wanted only to listen to his heart beat, savor the warmth of his arms around her, and know that she would be safe, if only for a little while from the living nightmares.

"What is it? Tell me what’s wrong!" He rocked her in his embrace, stroking her hair, whispering soothing words in her ear.

Desire, like hot tongues of flame licked at her body, turning her limp. She relished the throbbing ache that grew inside her and pressed herself tightly against his firm chest. Her arms snaked around his back, memorizing every taut muscle.

He shifted, drawing her onto his lap.

"Catherine," he groaned. He slid his hands up on either side of her face, his gaze burning hot with unabashed lust as he stared into her eyes. "I have to know. You can’t lie to me. I know something’s wrong!"

Something snapped in Catherine’s mind, she felt dizzy and closed her eyes but the minute she opened them again the whole world around her had changed. Britt no longer felt warm and alive. Her hands stopped caressing his back. Her fingers felt numbed as the cloth of his shirt suddenly dripped with frigid, briny water. His face, a mere whisper from hers, drained to an ashen hue, his eyes closed and a dark bruise swelled on his forehead, trickling blood. Worst of all, they no longer seemed to be sitting on the ground by the river. Instead, they sat on a dank, stone floor. A musty odor filled Catherine’s nostrils and the shadows of three hulking men cast an ominous gloom on the scene.

Catherine screamed, "They’ve hurt you!"

The wind whistled in her ears and the sunlight returned from out of nowhere to burn her eyes. She discovered that Britt was shaking her violently.

"Stop it! Come out of it!"

"I’m okay," she croaked, ending Britt’s brutal treatment.

"You had another spell." His voice sounded harsh as deep furrows marred his forehead.

Catherine lowered her gaze and tried to calm her breathing. Perhaps she was simply mad. She could never rid herself of the fear that she would wind up like her father, in a mixed up world, where everything would gradually slip away from her.

She reached out to touch the spot where the wound had been on his forehead. His skin felt warm and smooth, his glowing tan an indication of robust health. Her gaze strayed to his shirt, a dry, crisp white.

She fought against the tears and the ache in her throat. Gently, she removed Britt’s hands from her shoulders. She stood up and dusted off her pants. "I’m sorry," she said softly.

"Sorry?" Britt echoed. He got up from the ground and began to pace, running his hands through his hair. "Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Tell me what is happening. And don’t tell me that was another vision! You’ve got a serious illness. How can you work when you keep having these spells?"

Ice shot through Catherine’s veins. He could have her fired! What would she do without a job? Panic immobilized her. She could barely think. She cast her eyes up at the bright blue sky. Uncle Mike, help me out! Just as quickly, she turned her gaze to the earth. All those silly legends about fairy blood--what good were they now?

There must be some way to convince Britt that her mental capacity had not been compromised by the visions that assailed her. Though she knew exactly what he wanted to hear--confessing that she had a disease would be the only logical explanation he would accept. He did not want the truth because he refused to believe it. Her throat tightened. He could never acknowledge psychic ability. She forced in a deep breath and pulled herself together. She began to walk back to the car with long, unhurried strides. She had to pull off this act.

Britt followed her. She struggled to ignore the heat of him reaching out to her. She kept her eyes staring straight ahead.

"All right. I’m epileptic and with all the turmoil I’ve been forgetting to take my medication regularly." The lie nearly gagged her, but it didn’t break her stride and she reached Britt’s car a step ahead of him. She dug in her handbag for her compact and snapped it open to powder her face. That way she didn’t have to look at him and he couldn’t easily study her face to detect her deception.

"You didn’t put that on your application." Britt opened the door of his car for her.

"You’re living in a house without a certificate of occupancy," she reminded him.

"That’s different," he grumbled.

"Not really," she shrugged. "You needed a place to live and it would be too expensive to stay in an apartment while you repaired your house and brought it up to code. So you play the game. You pretend you aren’t living in your house.

"I needed a job and I know that employers do discriminate. They would rather gamble, hoping the prospective employee will not sue them. If they can gamble, so can I." She slid into the low bucket seat and Britt slammed the door.

He didn’t say a word to her as they rode together to work, but Catherine knew that he felt satisfied now with her explanation, and not because her acting had improved. Although he had boasted that he could read the truth in her eyes, he did not really want an accurate account because it wasn’t logical.

Catherine swallowed hard. Even she had a difficult time accepting the realm she was forced to visit. How different it would be if only he believed her. If only he could accept her as she was. But then, Britt would not be with her much longer.

Catherine bit her lip and closed her eyes to hold back the emotions that threatened to spill over. After a few moments, when she had her feelings under control, she opened her eyes again. By then, the car was heading up Main Street. Catherine studied Gull Haven’s massive rock wall on her right. Without the wall, Gull Haven would have been swept away by the ocean years ago. Sighing, she realized that she should have built a sturdy wall around her heart. But it was too late now. Her heart was already breaking.

Chapter Fifteen

The ringing of the telephones drove Britt nuts. From the moment he and Catherine arrived that morning, the calls coming in never stopped. Catherine’s plight had touched a raw nerve. He never dreamed the article about her father’s illness would initiate such an incredible response. But then, he hadn’t suspected so many people in the area were laden with the responsibility of caring for Alzheimer’s patients.

He listened as they poured out their hearts. They wept on the line--wives, husbands, brothers, sisters, daughters, and sons. By the end of the day, Britt felt totally strung out. He couldn’t help being moved by the woeful stories, but keeping a tight lid on his own emotions made every one of his nerves ready to snap. It troubled him further to realize that those strangers who called would gladly hoist Catherine on their shoulders and vote her into Congress. Or make her the Alzheimer poster girl.

All of them had been appalled that Catherine had been treated so callously by the criminal justice system. All of them demanded that her record be expunged. It wouldn’t surprise Britt if a petition arrived on his desk tomorrow with signatures from half the population of New Jersey. Overnight, Catherine had become a celebrity in her own right.

Britt flipped through his notes. Damn. What a waste of time the day had been. He glanced at Catherine who sat at the next terminal. She had spent the entire day doing her best not to look at him as if he had done something wrong. He couldn’t stand it another minute. As she hung up the phone, finished responding to another call, Britt addressed her, reading from the list he had compiled.

"Mrs. Witkowski, of 33 Laurel Avenue, Gull Haven, has a spare room for you. Mr. McManus, 487 Grant Avenue, Rivershire--which is, I should inform you, a very classy neighborhood--would love to have you come for dinner some night this week."

Catherine simply nodded, her gaze fixed at a sheath of papers in her lap while she twirled a pen between her fingers.

A stab of pain went through Britt at her cool demeanor. All right, he thought to himself. Granted, I didn’t handle the situation this morning with any finesse. But I had a right to know about her illness. Hell. I am her immediate supervisor.

He massaged the knots out of the muscles on the back of his neck and then rubbed his bloodshot eyes. I’m way off base. He knew he needed to try a different tactic with Catherine. But what?

Levity. Yes, that might do. With all the strain, they both needed a good laugh. He tore out a page and tossed it in Catherine’s lap.

"Mr. Tallmadge, 929 Lone Pine Road, Rivershire, wants to legally adopt you. He claims to have a considerable estate and would make you his sole heir since none of his own children have helped him at all with their mother."

She made no response.

Britt winced. Okay. So that isn’t really funny. He reached out, intending to tuck her hair behind her ear. She seemed to be using her hair as a barrier, preventing him from enjoying a glimpse of her delicate features. As if she knew what he intended to do, she whirled away from him. She sprang out of her chair and stood with her back to him while making a show of shuffling the papers in her hands.

"I’ll send Mr. Tallmadge my thanks for his kind offer along with my regrets. He should try to reconcile with his own children." Her voice hovered somewhere between cold steel and high emotion.

Britt glanced at the wastebasket beneath her desk. Wadded up tissues filled the basket to the brim. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t want him to see her face. Maybe she had been crying. He’d been so busy with the phone calls and the strain of holding in his feelings, that he hadn’t given a thought as to how those calls had affected Catherine.

Britt raked his hand through his hair. He wanted to mend the rift between Catherine and himself,

but he didn’t know where to start or how to put it into words.

"The people calling in all agree you’re their heroine. They really admire you." He clamped his mouth together and felt the nerves twitch. The comments he had heard indicated a whole lot more than simple admiration. He burst out, "Hell. They’re ready to canonize you."

The minute the words tumbled from his mouth, he knew he had gotten it all wrong. She turned on him. If she had wept during the day, he couldn’t tell. Her eyes now glowed with an eerie blue flame and her cheeks blazed with anger.

"When we wrote that article yesterday, I didn’t tell you about the times I hated my father--the times I swore at him--the times I wished he would die. I’m not a saint. I’m simply a survivor. You don’t need to be envious of that." She rushed from the room.

His shoulders slumped and he leaned back in his chair. He had to admit she hit the nail on the head. His failing would always be jealousy. It had ruined his marriage, and from the start, it made working with Catherine a potentially disastrous situation. Resentment seeped even into his sparing praise and Catherine heard it. He just couldn’t accept being eclipsed by a neophyte journalist, no matter how trying her young life had been and no matter how well she wrote. There could be no doubt about it--today the readers of the Daily Press made Catherine a star and Britt didn’t like it.

Looking like a cat who swallowed a canary, Joshua came striding up to Britt a few minutes later.

"You’ll never guess who called me today." Joshua rubbed his hands together.

Britt recognized the nervous action of his boss as an indicator of barely suppressed joy. "Rupert

Murdoch?"

Joshua continued rubbing his hands together. "No, no, no. Not him! Somebody even better."

Britt shrugged. Who, besides Catherine, was making big news lately? "Bruce Springsteen?"

Joshua shook his head. "Nancy Reagan. Can you believe it?"

Britt slumped down even further and closed his eyes. Oh yes. He believed it.

"A lovely woman," Joshua sighed. "You could hear the little quiver in her voice. Catherine’s story touched her deeply."

Was there anyone in the Northern Hemisphere who hadn’t been deeply touched by Catherine’s story? Britt circled his temples with his fingertips.

"I want you and Catherine to do a week long feature on Alzheimer’s disease," Joshua began. He then outlined some of the expectations he had for the feature. Naturally, Ronald Reagan would be mentioned, favorably, of course. Britt took notes.

Penance. Britt couldn’t help but suspect that Joshua devised this scheme from the very beginning. The man was a genius.

When Joshua finished, he asked, "Where is Catherine?"

"Probably doing research in the morgue. It’s her favorite hangout after work," Britt replied.

Joshua smiled and nodded. "She is top notch. Hope we can keep her. Let her know right away about the feature."

"Sure thing." Britt stood up as Joshua hurried away and wondered if maybe he should borrow a catcher’s facemask before he opened the door to the morgue. Catherine might throw something at him the minute she saw his face. When she found out they would be working together on a feature, he could just imagine her disappointment.

Britt frowned. Actually, the type of feature Joshua wanted was the kind that could win them both an award--if they did it right. They could really sink their teeth into this one. They should celebrate.

Britt snapped his fingers. He knew something even better for protection than a catcher’s face mask--at least where a woman was concerned. He used to be a master at winning the affection of the fairer sex. He couldn’t believe he had lost his touch completely. He had to be more creative. Surprise her. Yes. Sweep her off her feet--literally.

* * *

Catherine hung onto the grab bar for dear life as Britt slammed into another wave with his motorboat. She gasped as the salt spray stung her face.

"Too fast?" Britt leaned over and patted her thigh. His touch sent a shiver of delight coursing through her. Oh yes--way too fast. She fought the impulse to cover his hand with her own.

She gulped back an ache in her throat and nodded. He cut back on the accelerator.

"Isn’t this great?" he beamed. "We’ve got the whole river to ourselves!"

Catherine shivered and wiped the water off her face with the back of her hand, praying she wouldn’t be lured into another vision.

"This is really refreshing." She tried to put a light tone in her voice, but she knew she hadn’t succeeded when Britt lifted one eyebrow to shoot a quizzical glance at her.

"Just wait till we get to Starvation Island. Since this is a weekday, we’ll probably have it all to ourselves," he promised.

Catherine felt the flames flickering inside her and hunkered down miserably in the seat. She must have lost her mind. Of all the stupid things to do--this had to be the most idiotic. Britt had come to her in the morgue with a basket on his arm full of gourmet goodies and a bottle of champagne and she didn't feel she could refuse. Besides, after her session in the morgue today, she felt she needed some distraction. She had uncovered the story about the death of Evelyn’s first husband, Vincent Hill, Drew’s father.

Britt veered sharply to the left and pointed straight ahead. "There it is!"

Catherine peered through the boat’s windshield. Starvation Island appeared to be little more than an overgrown sandbar, set in the middle of the river. Stunted, scrawny bushes provided a few patches of green. A number of gray, wooden boat hulls sat solemnly along the shoreline, silent monuments to the carelessness of man and the capricious will of the weather.

Britt cut the engine as they drew close to the water's edge. He stood and heaved the anchor out onto the sandy bank. The weather had turned warm and muggy so Britt had donned a pair of shorts and a white tank top. The view of his rippling muscles had Catherine’s heart doing somersaults.

He went to the back of the boat and swung the outboard up and out of the water, locking it in place. At the front of the boat he tested the water with his foot.

"Brrr," he shivered. "Still chilly this time of the year." He groaned as he slid into the cold river anyway and Catherine nearly laughed when she saw him grimace from the shock of it.

"Wipe that smile off your face matey, or I’ll have you walk the plank," Britt threatened, wading in water up around his thighs.

Catherine sobered instantly. She still wore the sensible pantsuit she had chosen for work that morning. Though she had shed the jacket in deference to the sticky humidity, she couldn’t take off anything else. "How do I get out of the boat without getting wet?"

A menacing grin crossed Britt’s face and he leaned over the edge of the boat near her seat with one eyebrow tilted dangerously. "No problem."

He quickly scooped her up and Catherine squealed. "Put me down!"

"In the water?" he asked wickedly.

"No!" Catherine clung to his neck while her heart thundered loudly. She buried her head against his shoulder, unable to stop herself from savoring the scent of his skin.

He waded to the shore, placing her gently down on the soft sand.

"Now don’t get lost." He winked before going back to the boat for their provisions.

Catherine sighed. Britt’s lightheartedness only made her feel more morose. He only accepted her now that she had lied and labeled herself with a standard illness. This whole excursion had been thrown together to ease his guilty conscience. She couldn’t stop herself from loving him, however, despite his obstinate attitude. When the disaster she had foreseen in her vision came to pass, she knew she would mourn Britt for the rest of her life.

Catherine’s mood changed to amazement as Britt dug the goodies out of his basket. He drew out real china, silverware and even stemware along with such tempting items as pate, shrimp cocktail, and petit fours.

He chatted amiably about the weeklong feature Joshua requested on Alzheimer’s disease as they sat on a blanket and feasted. Catherine recognized the assignment as a great opportunity, but she remained tense. She debated with herself whether she should tell him of the discovery she had made in the morgue concerning Evelyn’s first husband. Maybe Britt already knew about it. Maybe that’s why he had been so quick to suspect Evelyn in the first place.

The shadows lengthened on the barren island. Catherine felt a chill prickling her spine and glanced over her shoulder. A bank of heavy clouds blotted out the horizon.

"We’re in for a storm," she warned.

Britt poured himself another glass of champagne and shrugged. "We’ve got time. It’ll probably blow out to sea anyhow."

She pressed her lips together tightly. How could he be so dense? Even without extrasensory powers, he could see those clouds, couldn’t he? Catherine turned around and frowned at the darkening sky. She could feel the energy as the billowing blackness hurried toward them.

She began packing up the basket. "Didn’t you hear that thunder?"

"No." He sipped his champagne. "Now, as I was saying, we’ll take a photographer along when we do our interviews--"

Catherine stood up. "We’ve got to get off this island. It’s going to be hit by lightning!"

Britt’s eyes turned as dark as the bleak clouds overhead. "All right--if you insist, we’ll leave." He downed his glass in one swallow and joined her in pitching everything back into the basket.

Fear built in Catherine, causing her hands to tremble as she shook out the blanket and folded it. A few warning raindrops splashed on her cheeks and sent her scurrying to the edge of the water. A thin finger of lightning cut across the sky and she decided she didn’t care if her pants did get wet. She waded into the icy river with her teeth chattering from the cold.

She tossed the blanket into the boat and struggled to get herself in without tipping the whole thing over. Britt came up behind her with the basket which he set down in the boat.

"Allow me." His deep voice rumbled close to her ear and Catherine felt that awful need sparking with more danger than the approaching electrical storm.

He gripped her waist and hoisted her up and over the side, depositing her neatly in the seat. The wind picked up as Britt waded back to the shore for the anchor. Another flash of white lit up the sky and Catherine wrung her hands.

"Hurry up!" she begged. Her eyes scanned the area. The marsh grass bounding the river rippled in the onslaught of the storm. Aside from the island, the boat would be the highest point for miles, an easy target for a hot silver finger to reach out and fry them to a crisp.

Catherine’s heartbeat raced. Maybe this was where Britt would meet his doom. She shook her head violently. No, no. It couldn’t be. She remembered the cold stone floor in her vision.

Britt clambered into the boat with the anchor.

"There’s a tarp under your seat. Better get it out." His voice sounded resigned. Catherine knew he finally admitted to himself that it would be best to get back quickly. He bent over the engine and, with a click, the outboard swung back down into position.

Catherine slid off her seat and lifted it to reveal the compartment underneath. She pushed aside a first aid kit, a flashlight, some tools, and a map encased in a zippered bag to find a blue tarp, neatly folded at the bottom of the small space. She pulled out the tarp and placed the seat back down over the storage area. Britt yanked at the pull chord on the motor and the engine kicked into life. He sat down, pushed the accelerator forward and with a roar they sped off.

Catherine gathered up her hair to keep it from whipping in the wind. She watched the island grow smaller and the sky turn black. With a deafening crack, a blue-white lightning bolt scorched the island. Catherine covered her ears as a torrent of rain tumbled down.

* * *

Britt had no time to worry about their near miss. As the downpour descended he pointed the bow of the boat toward the Rivershire Bridge and took their bearing on the small compass fixed to the control panel of the boat. Within seconds, the rain created a gray wall all around them. He couldn’t see more than a foot in front of the bow.

"Get down and cover yourself!" he shouted to Catherine above the sound of the deluge and the crash of thunder. Lashed by the wind and the rain, he inched slowly along. He struggled to keep his bearing as raindrops stung his eyes, making it difficult for him to see the compass.

He was a fool. A boat on the water in a thunderstorm made a prime target. A good sailor didn’t ignore the warning signs of bad weather. If he had used his head, he could have made the same prediction as Catherine. He had hesitated and wound up risking both their lives. Any second, the fury of a thousand volts of electricity could vaporize the two of them. And it would be his fault.

Why? He knew why. His felt his heart sink. He couldn’t chalk it up to simple stubbornness. His affection for Catherine had been growing. Against all reasoning, he searched diligently for her flaws, a task which was becoming next to impossible. He couldn’t help but admire her work. She did have a startling command of the language and a flair for expressing herself, succinctly, on paper.

This time he knew the manner in which she pronounced her forecast stirred up his blind hatred of all things paranormal. Why did she have to persist with that ridiculous idea? Otherwise, she could be perfectly normal. But then, if she had no faults, could he allow himself to love her?

He set his mouth grimly. No. They would always compete against each other. They would always battle for the honors--just as he and Heddy had done--and still did.

"There’s a lot of water in this boat!" Catherine peeked out from under the tarp.

"We won’t sink!" he shouted back. "There’s a pump in the back." He stole a glance at the floor. There had to be at least an inch of water there. Maybe the pump had stopped working, or maybe it simply couldn’t handle this amount of rain in such a short period of time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Catherine squirming beneath the tarp. He watched as her hand with its graceful, white fingers clutched the stem of a wineglass and dumped a small amount of water over the side of the boat.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, he almost laughed out loud. Damn. That woman had a streak of determination that more than matched his own. She continued bailing with the wineglass, setting up a rhythm that inspired Britt into whistling a peppy tune.

Britt’s whistle faded away and he blinked when a form, a grayness somewhat darker than the rain all around them, began to materialize ahead of the bow. The shape hovered like the filmy essence of a ghost. At first indistinct, then becoming more solid until, at last, massive and secure, the concrete columns of the bridge loomed above them. Britt’s grip on the wheel loosened as they slid underneath the shelter of the span where the wind-driven sheets of rain could no longer reach them.

Catherine threw back the tarp and peered all around. "What happened?"

Britt sighed and wiped the rain from his face. "We’re under the bridge. We could stay here until the rain slackens or we could try and tie up at the dock of the Pen and Ink Pub. It sits alongside this bridge, on the right."

Catherine, thoroughly drenched, made an appealing sight. The thunder sounded distant, and he realized their perilous journey had come to an end. His gaze riveted on Catherine’s silky white blouse. The fabric appeared transparent, faded to a mere whisper as it clung to her skin. Warmth spread like wildfire from his loins, galloping along his veins and taking his breath away.

Catherine crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head, letting her sodden hair fall forward to cover the outline of her breasts.

"I’m cold. Could we try for the pub?" she asked. "A hot cup of tea would help."

For a fleeting second, pure lust shot through him. He could warm her up much better than a hot liquid. No. The voice of reason clanged a warning in his head. He should avoid any kind of relationship with her. It would never work. He had learned that lesson the hard way and he should have enough sense not to make the same mistake again.

He warred with himself for another moment before averting his gaze and pushing the throttle slowly forward, his hand gripping the controls with more force than needed for the task. After this fiasco she would probably hate him. Some terrific idea! He had set out to smooth the alienation between them and had only succeeded in creating a bigger gap.

He eased the boat along slowly, staying beneath the overhang of the bridge. Having left the marked channel, he didn’t have any idea about the depth of the water or whether any obstacles lurked beneath the surface ready to rip out the bottom of his boat. One old piling from a former bridge on the site could create even more havoc than they had already endured.

Beyond the shelter of the bridge, the world remained a solid wall of rain. Inching forward, Britt would see each arch of the bridge manifest itself in front of the bow from the opaque haze. Then, slowly, the arch would vanish behind them as they slid by. The arches gradually became lower as they neared the end of the bridge. Britt’s heart leaped when he spotted the dock to the right.

He swung the boat toward the dock, leaving behind the shelter of the bridge. The rain pelted them, but Catherine appeared undaunted. She drew up a rope as Britt eased the boat against the float. Raising his eyebrows in surprise, he watched Catherine throw the rope around the cleat on the float with perfect aim. While he cut the engine, she pulled the rope taut and wound it around the cleat, ending with two perfect half hitches.

"I thought you didn’t know anything about boating," he said as he jumped out of the boat and secured a second line.

"Uncle Mike showed me how to tie up, but that’s all." She shrugged.

At the mention of her uncle’s name, her shoulders slumped, and for a moment Britt’s heart went out to her. She looked like a forlorn, lonely urchin battered by the storm. However, he noticed the rivulets of water coursing down her body defined every tender curve and denied her any resemblance to a starving waif. He clenched his teeth in an attempt to renounce the hunger that gnawed within him.

Catherine sighed heavily and cast her eyes to the puddle of water at her feet. Britt shook off his momentary lapse into insanity.

"Here. Let me give you a hand." He extended his arm, hauled her out of the boat and drew her up against his side to shelter her from the torrent. Racing with her to the pub’s porch, he felt her tremble. Once they reached the porch’s refuge, a strong reluctance to release her gripped him.

He searched her face and wondered if some of the drops on her skin might be tears. He couldn’t see her eyes beneath her lowered lashes and didn’t know how to gauge her emotions.

"We made it." His inane remark made him wince inwardly. Stating the obvious didn’t offer much comfort.

"Yes. Thank God," she whispered. Her body shivered violently, and her lips had a blue tinge to them. Britt knew he should call a cab and send her home for a hot bath and dry clothes. Instead, he pulled her into the warmth of his own body, no longer able to ignore the fire smoldering inside him. He lowered his head and sought out her lips with his own.

Chapter Sixteen

Catherine felt the terror of the storm recede with the glow of Britt’s kiss. Though rain still poured from the sky, the sun blazed in her heart. Heat shot through her, melting the icy grip of fear. She pressed against Britt, opening her lips to drink in his warmth. She hungered to end the hollow emptiness inside her.

She pushed the doubts plaguing her to the back of her mind. She had this special moment. She had Britt in her arms and she couldn’t bear to let him go. She could have lost him in the storm, but she had not. For now, he was safe.

The thrill of allowing herself to luxuriate in Britt’s embrace sent her pulse skidding wildly. It was Britt who pulled back with a frown creasing his forehead. He ran his finger lightly down to the base of her throat.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asked. "I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have--"

Catherine didn’t get the chance to let him know that she felt wonderful. Susan, the pub’s waitress, came bustling up to them with two steaming mugs in one hand and two tablecloths draped over her arm.

"We were worried about you two!" she exclaimed. "Al told me he made up that basket for you and he knew you were off to Starvation Island. He was ready to call out the rescue squad when he saw you tie up at the dock." She handed the hot drinks to them and proceeded to wrap one tablecloth around Catherine’s shoulders.

"You better not come inside. We’ve got the air on. Al says you’ll catch your death. The drinks are on the house, by the way." She winked as she draped the other tablecloth around Britt’s shoulders. "You sit down, warm up, and drip dry for a while."

Susan hurried off and Catherine stared down at the drink.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Al’s famous ‘hot toddy,’" Britt explained. "It’s supposed to be a cure-all as well as a preventative medication. If you walk into the pub with a runny nose, Al refuses to serve you unless you drink this first."

Catherine attempted to take a sip, but the hot liquid burned the tip of her tongue.

Britt laughed. "It never cools down. Susan told me Al mixes up strong tea, whiskey, lemon, sugar and a heaping dose of cayenne."

"Cayenne!" Catherine made a face and Britt laughed harder as he put his arm around her shoulder.

"You have to drink it all or Al will come out here and glare at you until you’re finished."

Her heart raced as Britt gazed into her eyes. She read the lust written in his features and found it echoing in her own body. Heady promises of sensuous wonders waiting to be experienced leaped out at her. Her knees felt ready to give way.

"L-let’s sit down." She put a hand to her cheek, hoping to cool the flush that tingled on her skin. Britt gently lifted her hand to his lips and brushed feathery kisses across her fingers. He lifted one dark brow and smiled mischievously. Catherine gasped as she saw herself reflected in his eyes and realized that the way her wet clothing clung to her skin left nothing at all to his imagination.

She yanked her hand away and stepped back, pulling the tablecloth closer about her body. Plopping down into one of the old wooden rockers that graced the porch, she took a deep breath and focused on the liquid steaming from the mug in her hands. She had to stop this. She had to end this rampaging madness in her heart. She loved Britt, but his future promised only agonizing sorrow.

The swirling liquid in the mug transformed itself into an image that caused Catherine’s heart to slam against her chest. Depicted in a miniature vision, she and Britt lay naked amid tangled blankets, snuggling closely against each other.

"It isn’t poisonous," Britt said as he pulled up beside her in another rocker. "Come on, try it."

Catherine clamped her hand over the top of the mug to hide the minuscule apparition. Rattled by what she had viewed, she completely forgot that Britt would never be able to see anything but the steaming brown liquid in the mug.

"It really does chase away the chills." Britt gulped down a mouthful of the potent brew and grimaced. Judging from his contorted features, Catherine suspected the elixir tasted awful.

Nevertheless, after he coughed and cleared his throat, he frowned at her. "Where’s your sense of adventure? Quaff it down. I’ll have you know that Al has a list of bona fide miracles attributed to this medicinal wonder drug." Britt’s face softened and he rubbed his hand on her thigh. "You were shivering, and with your condition--"

Catherine winced. How she hated that lie! She gritted her teeth to keep from blurting out that she didn’t have epilepsy. She was psychic--and that was bad enough. She lowered her head.

Slowly, she slid her hand away from the top of the mug and sighed with relief when she didn’t see anything.

"Okay," she murmured. Sipping the brew gingerly she discovered the cure-all went down sweet at first, but then changed to a ball of fire burning her throat and stomach. Her eyes widened. She fanned her hand in front of her mouth in a futile attempt to put out the blaze.

Britt’s roar of delight startled her. As his loud hoots of merriment continued, she chuckled a little and then joined in wholeheartedly. Britt slapped his thigh with a loud whack and managed to spill some of the elixir, which made him laugh even harder.

"We come close to getting barbecued. We look like a couple of drowned river rats, and now Al is going to kill us with his own unique form of kindness." He took a deep breath, making an obvious attempt to control himself. "What a day. I guess that trip out to Starvation Island was a dumb idea. Can you forgive me?"

His eyes darkened to near black and Catherine realized he was serious. The pulse leaped in her throat. She would forgive him anything, even though he could never accept that one special gift of hers. The idea that she had to deny a part of herself hurt so much, she could feel the cold tip of a dagger pressing against her heart with every breath. When she thought of her vision, she could pardon his myopic view of the sixth sense.

Her throat felt tight. "It wasn’t your fault it rained."

He nodded and sighed. "We have to work together, Catherine. I don’t want you to think of me as an ogre."

She lifted her brows in surprise. Britt might be stubborn and opinionated, with hearty appetites for both food and pleasures of the flesh, but she didn’t see any evil in him. Jealousy, yes, he had plenty of that, but not a speck of malevolence.

The very thought of the black powers of darkness sent shivers rushing up and down her spine. The remembrance of the horrible truth she had found in the morgue that day turned her stomach. She set the mug down on the floor of the porch and put her head in her hands.

"I-I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about Aunt Evelyn. I guess you were right all along. I didn’t want to believe it. I suppose you already knew about her first husband, but nobody ever told me. I found the story in the morgue and it really--sickened me. I could never--"

"What are you talking about?"

Catherine lifted her head. Britt had a confused look on his face. She blinked hard. He didn’t have a clue about the incident.

"Vincent Hill, Evelyn’s first husband died in a boating accident, supposedly falling out of the boat and getting his hands--" Catherine took a deep breath. "--his hands lopped off by the propeller."

Britt sat rigid, shock written all over his face.

Catherine took another deep breath. "Judging from the accolades Vincent received at his death from his friends at the track, I have to assume he gambled to excess. I do know that when Uncle Mike married Evelyn, she had financial problems. If it hadn’t been for Uncle Mike, she might have lost her home."

"Stick to the accident. Any other information on that?" Britt insisted.

"A friend was quoted as saying that Vincent was overweight and didn’t go in for sports--other than watching horse races, I suppose. Yet, he chose one rather rough and windy day to go out fishing for the first time," Catherine paused. The inside of her mouth felt like sandpaper, but she didn’t dare try another taste of Al’s mystery medicine.

"Actually, maybe the outing wasn’t Vincent’s idea. Aunt Evelyn rented the boat for him, though, of course, when he failed to return, she did call the police--the next day. They found the boat right away, abandoned in the marsh. Vincent’s body washed up a week later."

"Didn’t anyone suspect foul play?" Britt asked, his mouth drawn into a grim line.

"A judge Grayson was mentioned in one of the articles. I assume he was one of Evelyn’s relatives."

"How convenient. So what did they cover up?"

Catherine took a deep breath and eyed the mug. Hadn’t Britt claimed Al put whiskey in the mix? The alcohol would deaden her taut emotions. She picked up the mug and gulped down a generous portion of the liquid. This time she welcomed the resulting inferno in her mouth. It gave her the strength to continue.

"Evidence indicated that Vincent did not drown. His death resulted from a severe loss of blood but the rental boat didn’t have a drop of blood in it. This obviously led to the conclusion that he fell out of the boat and then had his hands sliced off by the propeller."

Britt snapped his fingers and startled Catherine.

"What about the gas tank on the boat?"

She blinked. He was sharp. Maybe he should have been a detective. He could probably do a much better job than Detective Jamison.

"The tank still had gas in it when it was located."

"It should have been empty."

"The controls were set in the ‘off’ position."

"The whole thing was staged!" Britt’s brow clouded with anger.

"I--I--it’s awful. All this time--I mean, I always knew her as cold and distant--" Catherine covered her eyes with her trembling hand and tried to regain some composure. "Two months later, Uncle Mike married her. He told me when she walked into the real estate office he heard sweet, subtle fairy music and knew he was about to be carried off by a fairy queen." The words stuck in her mouth. All that fairy business! Indoctrinated with Uncle Mike’s legends, she never questioned the absurdity of it all. Fairy music, fairy blood, fairy queen! Aunt Evelyn was a calculating murderess, but Uncle Mike with his rose-colored glasses couldn’t see that.

"How could she get away with murder twice?" A sob caught in Catherine’s throat.

"Who was the investigating officer?"

Catherine gulped back another sob. "Jamison."

"Figures." Britt stood up and pulled the tablecloth off. "Looks like the rain stopped. Let’s get back. I’d like to check that stuff out myself." He gulped down the rest of his drink, blinked a few times, coughed, and shook his head.

Catherine stared into her mug, almost wishing the two tiny figures would reappear. They had looked so happy, with tender, satisfied smiles on their faces. Naturally, she would never sleep with Britt. Since she hadn't seen a miniature vision in a mug before, she chalked it up to overwrought nerves and her own hormones gone haywire, not a barometer of the future. The little vignette made no sense since Britt would soon be dead. That dreadful truth had come to her in one of her full-scale visions which were always accurate.

She bit her lip and fought back tears.

"You don’t really have to finish it." Britt eased the mug from Catherine’s hand and emptied the contents on a potted geranium. "I bet this plant is going to dance any second now."

Catherine smiled even though her heart ached. She started to yank the tablecloth off her shoulders but Britt stilled her hand.

"I’m sure Al won’t mind if you borrow that overnight. Your blouse is still wet." He left her for a minute, entering the pub to return the mugs and his own tablecloth.

Her mind drifted for a moment, considering the efficacy of Al’s medicinal hot toddy. The scientific community was finding out that some foods did offer protective properties. Garlic has antibiotic action in the human body. And many modern medicines come from plants, used first for centuries by the healers in various cultures around the world. While all Uncle Mike’s fairy nonsense now seemed sadly like the ravings of a hopeless romantic, Catherine’s curiosity piqued about the book her uncle mentioned that contained the Taylor women’s mystical spells. Perhaps, the ‘spells’ were simply herbal remedies and somewhere in those pages Catherine could find a way to protect Britt from his tragic fate.

Reasoning with herself, she recalled that herbs like ginseng and ginkgo were now touted with powers of increasing memory and adding vitality to the elderly. It could be possible that one of her ancestors discovered an herbal combination capable of helping people to develop more strength, or maybe one that would make them more alert to their surroundings so nobody could sneak up on them.

Her shoulders slumped. How ridiculous. She was grabbing at straws. Still, she did want to see that book. She didn’t want Aunt Evelyn to toss it in the garbage.

Catherine stood up and paced about the porch, flinging her damp hair off her shoulders in her agitation. With a renewed sense of purpose, she vowed she would search for that book. She still had a key to Aunt Evelyn’s house so it wouldn’t be a problem getting into the place. However, in the interest of her own safety, she would make sure nobody else was home when she entered. She shuddered as she remembered seeing the murderers leaving the house yesterday morning. She should never have followed them.

* * *

Britt thanked Al for the hot toddies and the gourmet basket of goodies, then asked him about Vincent Hill. Al knew a lot of people and it turned out he remembered Vincent Hill clearly even though Vincent was never a regular customer of the Pen and Ink Pub.

"I’d see him at the track whenever I went. He always looked over the horses before he made his bets. He spouted off like he knew everything there was to know about horseflesh, but he lost just the same." Al mixed up a Manhattan and added a maraschino cherry with a flourish. He placed it on a tray and Susan whizzed by to pick it up.

"What about his wife?" Britt asked.

Al frowned. "I met her at the wake when I went to pay my respects. It was quite a while back but I can see it like it was yesterday. That poor woman looked real broken up. Clung to her son like he was her life preserver. Closed casket--the body must have been in bad shape."

Britt shuddered. He’d covered several stories about those unfortunates who washed up on the beach--"floaters" the police called them. The decaying bodies had been a gruesome sight.

He thanked Al again and walked out of the pub. He stopped in the foyer to glance at the headline for the day on the cover of the Eagle. Dropping his coins into the machine, he counted the number of copies still waiting to be sold--a total of twelve. He didn’t take one. He closed the door and stepped up to the next machine which held copies of the Press. Dropping in more coins, he opened the door and noted with glee that only two remained. Breaking out in a grin, he closed that machine up as well.

"Yes!" he hissed, fisting his hands with a renewed sense of power. Taking a deep breath of satisfaction, he headed toward the exit that led to the porch.

Before he stepped outside, he saw Catherine through the glass. She paced back and forth with deep furrows in her brow and her gaze fixed on the floor. Britt dropped back into the shadows of the foyer and watched her. He could imagine the wheels turning in her brain. No doubt, she was making plans and judging from the way she flung her hair over her shoulder, she wasn’t contemplating a tea party.

Anxiety gripped him right in the gut. He almost wished ESP was a reality, because if it existed, he could read her mind. She’d pulled enough crazy and dangerous stunts to make him consider keeping her under lock and key.

He sighed and shook his head. He had an appointment this evening with his ex-wife and he didn’t want Catherine beside him to dispute whatever information Heddy had dug up. Anyway, how much trouble could Catherine get into? Her car was being repaired. She’d be safe in his house with the doors locked and the security system on. Yet, that nagging chill spread through him and he didn’t like it.

He reached out and turned the knob. Catherine’s head turned at the sound. She halted her furious pacing and came up to him as he stepped out onto the porch.

"Okay," she smiled. "You said you want to get back, so let’s go."

Britt raised an eyebrow. She appeared much too eager suddenly, and he had an insane desire to forget his plans for the night. But spending too much time with Catherine could have dire consequences for him. She was far too desirable and he knew he would lose control if he so much as sniffed her perfume wafting through the air.

He set his mouth grimly. "Yes, let’s hurry."

As he untied the boat at the dock behind the pub, Britt glanced out at the vista surrounding them. Now that the rain had stopped, the river looked like a still mirror, though the distant hills remained shrouded in fog. The way the river’s moods changed always fascinated him and he especially loved the tranquility that a scene like the one before him usually inspired. Except he didn’t feel tranquil. His nerves had bunched up at the back of his neck. He had this odd feeling--like he had forgotten something and he couldn’t fathom what it was.

Of course, Catherine’s fidgeting might be part of the reason for his tenseness. She kept fussing with her hair and the tablecloth around her shoulders. Then she hopped from the passenger seat to the driver’s seat.

"Why don’t you show me how to drive this thing?" she asked.

"Because I’m the captain," he replied. She turned her gaze on him and he melted inside. Damn. If she didn’t use hypnosis, then the fault lay within him. He had all the rigidity of a marshmallow when it came to staring into her mournful eyes.

"Oh all right, I was only teasing. It’s real easy to drive this thing--provided you can get it started." He motioned for her to join him beside the motor. "You have to pull at this cord around the flywheel, and here’s the choke button which must be used when the engine is cold." He reached for her hand and felt the tingling zing rip up his arm. It startled him, as it always did. If he couldn’t blame the sensation on static, where did it come from? Nobody else had ever affected him that way.

He frowned at the delicate hand in his own. There’s no such thing as magic! Somehow she had tricked him--if not by hypnosis, then by some more subtle illusion. He savored the sensation, and at the same time loathed the deception. He found he had to force himself to go on.

"Yank at that cord, fast and hard," he ordered.

He watched her shiver as he let go of her hand. Her initial effort in pulling the cord didn’t work.

"Brace yourself, spread your legs apart--" Britt instructed even as the heat burned in his loins.

Catherine did as he bid, took a deep breath, frowned intensely and jerked at the cord. The engine turned over and purred.

She scurried back to the captain’s seat and cast another eager look toward him.

He released the line that kept them tethered and pushed the boat away from the dock. He walked up behind her, leaned over and gulped as his mouth touched her ear. He had an overpowering urge to nibble her tender skin, to run his tongue along the whorls that formed the delicate shell.

"Well? What do I do next?"

Britt looked up and his heart seemed to jump into his throat. They had drifted and would be crashing into one of the bridge supports if they didn’t change course soon. He clenched his teeth together and vowed not to touch her again.

"That’s the throttle, the middle position is neutral, which is where it is now." He pointed to the stick and Catherine rested her hand on it. "Put your left hand on the wheel while you push the throttle slowly forward with your right hand--"

She jammed it on full power. The bow pointed skyward and she squealed. Britt covered her fingers with his own, amazed that his hand looked as though it had swallowed hers up. He pulled the throttle back.

"You’re supposed to do it easy--like this--" He pressed gently ahead, trying to ignore the warmth shimmering from her hand into his.

"I assume that if I push the throttle backward, we will go in reverse." She turned to look at him, but he put his left hand on top of her head and directed it straight ahead.

"Pay attention," he admonished. "You are correct about the reverse position of the throttle, but right now I don’t want to slam into the bridge."

She sat up straighter. "Aye, aye, captain." She turned the wheel and pulled away from the shadow of the bridge. They cruised smoothly along. Britt sat down in the passenger seat.

"Do you have any idea of how to get back to my place?" he questioned.

"That away?" She pointed east.

He nodded and tried to relax but a gnawing sense of urgency had begun to build in him and mingle with the odd uncertainty he felt earlier. Normally, meeting up with Heddy did make him uneasy. Unresolved conflicts lay seething beneath the surface of their stilted encounters. But this felt different and it bothered him enough for him to ignore Catherine’s direction until he pitched forward and felt the boat scrape the bottom of the river.

He jumped up and grabbed the controls to turn off the motor. "I should have known better," he growled.

"I’m sorry. What happened?"

She appeared to be shaking all over and Britt regretted his harsh tone. After all, he had done the very same thing the first time he had taken a boat out on the water.

"You hit a sandbar. You have to watch for the channel markers and stay within their borders."

"Oh." She nibbled at her lower lip and Britt had to fight against the urge to kiss her and make it all better.

He pointed out a nearby buoy. "When you’re heading out toward the ocean you keep the green or black buoys on your right hand side. When you’re going back inland you kept the red buoys on your right. Red, right, return. Stay between the buoys and you are in the channel. If you leave the channel--"

"You run into sandbars," she finished. "Uncle Mike never ran into sandbars."

"No, he didn’t. He had an expensive boat and he worried over every little nick and dent," Britt admitted. "He was very, very careful."

"Except for the fact that he married a murderer." Catherine’s voice had a bitter edge to it. What would she do now that she felt certain her aunt had killed her uncle?

"You don’t intend to confront her with the stuff you stumbled upon, do you?" he threatened.

"No, of course not."

Britt noticed she averted her eyes and shifted in her chair. He felt a stab of fear, convinced she was lying to him again. That’s why she had paced up and down on the porch. That’s why she looked so eager to get back to his place.

"Do you know how dangerous it could be to let that woman know you’ve pieced it all together and decided that she is guilty?" He knew his voice was rising but he couldn’t stop it. "She’s unhinged already! What’s to stop her from plotting your demise?"

It took him a moment to realize that the more wound up he became, the more motionless Catherine appeared. He stopped his ranting and stared at her. Was she breathing?

"I have no intention of ever meeting up with Aunt Evelyn again," Catherine stated in a hushed voice. "I swear it." She looked at him and he found himself floundering in the depths of her eyes. He believed her. He knew he’d been caught like a fish in a net, but he didn’t want to break free. He didn’t mind in the least if he sank all the way to the bottom of those blue pools.

"Anyway, with Detective Jamison on the case, there isn’t much hope of her ever seeing justice, I suppose." The little catch in her throat shattered Britt’s reverie. The very real possibility that Evelyn would get away with murder precipitated a sinking feeling in his stomach. Mike Taylor had been a friend as well as his realtor. Mike didn’t deserve to die in such a horrible manner. Nobody did. The gruesome details of Vincent Hill’s death both sickened and angered Britt. How could everyone ignore Evelyn’s sociopathic behavior? Because Jamison is protecting her. But why? Were they lovers? Had she paid him off?

Britt gazed down into the murky water. The pressing anxiety weighing on him expanded into a headache. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will away the pain, but it didn’t work. He ground his teeth and opened his eyes. He had depended on his ex-wife to track down some useful clues. But what if Heddy hadn’t uncovered any useful information? What could he do next?

Suddenly, he felt compelled to hurry. In one quick movement, he swung over the side of the boat to push it off the sandbar. Pressing against the hull, he groaned as he shoved and rocked the boat, but it remained firmly grounded in the sand.

Startled by a splash, he turned to see Catherine wading up beside him.

"Get back in the boat before you hurt yourself," he growled.

Her eyes narrowed and her lips formed a taut line, but she didn’t hop back into the boat. Instead, she thrust her shoulder up against the hull. The boat inched backward.

Britt frowned. He had, after all, done most of the work. The current must have given her the edge. "I told you to get in the boat." He put his hands on his hips and glowered at her.

She simply took a deep breath, put her shoulder up against the hull again and called out, "All right, on the count of three--one--two--three--"

Britt lunged against the hull. With a scraping sound the boat broke free. Britt grabbed the line and swung around to see Catherine slapping her palms together.

"No sweat," she boasted.

"Let me see that shoulder, if there’s any bruises on you I’ll--" He reached out to peel away the whisper thin fabric of her blouse.

Catherine ran her fingers along his hand. He winced as his heart thundered at her touch. It was the strain, he reminded himself. Stress could break a man or make him believe in magic even when he knew it was nothing but a collection of clever tricks.

Her slow smile broke out like the rays of the sun from behind a cloud. "Will you kiss my shoulder and make it better?"

Damn. Sometimes she could be so sexy it took his breath away. But he couldn’t love her--not now--not ever. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He had learned his lesson with his marriage to Heddy. Or had he?

Chapter Seventeen

Catherine watched as the glow from Britt’s headlights faded away. She sat in his kitchen trying to sew a button on one of his shirts, but found herself distracted as the thread kept tangling in her trembling fingers. She winced as she stabbed her pinky by accident. Sucking on the wound, she tossed her task aside.

She had tried to convince Britt to stay at home for the evening, but he had run off and refused to tell her where he was going. She felt a heavy blackness in her soul and worried over whether this would be the night her vision would come to pass.

She removed the injured finger from her mouth and examined it. It had stopped bleeding. She clutched at the Celtic cross around her neck. Please, please watch over him and don’t let any harm come to him. She prayed fervently for a few minutes and then stopped. Her words of petition had done nothing to lift the weighty anxiety in her heart. Britt needed more than just her simple prayer. He would die--unless she decided to take an extra step and make some attempt to change the future.

She put a quivering hand to her brow. She had no idea what one of her ancestors’ "spells" would require. Her visions already terrified her. How could she contemplate delving deeper into the dark world of the cosmos? She might create a disaster instead of saving the man she loved.

Loved. With all her heart. She recalled the tiny image that had appeared in her mug. It would be heaven to share her love with Britt and worth the risk.

She couldn’t sit and do nothing. She walked to the door and turned off the kitchen light. Across the driveway, Aunt Evelyn’s house stood dark and silent. The sleek Lexus wasn’t there and neither was Drew’s Jaguar.

Catherine glanced at her watch. It was still relatively early. Perhaps Drew and his mother had gone out to dinner or to some social function. They probably wouldn’t be back until at least ten o’clock.

Maybe.

Catherine frowned. She had no idea where Uncle Mike had hidden that book of the Taylor women’s spells. Logically, it should be in the study. She knew very little about the room, since she had never been allowed to enter it. She had figured out that the dimensions of the room must be rather small, though the room did have a grand, arched window with two side panels that opened. She could squeeze through one of those side panels if she had to make a fast escape.

She twirled a silken strand of hair around her finger. Her uncle had always kept the room locked. Her conscience pained her at the thought that the only alternative might be to break into the room. But this was a matter of Britt’s life or death. She set her mouth grimly and flipped open her handbag to dig out a credit card. The thin piece of plastic would only be useful for the simplest of locks. Whirling around, she went upstairs to sift through Britt’s toolbox.

After she had armed herself with three different types of screwdrivers, a claw hammer, a pair of pliers, and several other implements, she then went through her suitcase to add a few hairpins.

Being incarcerated for a few hours with a bunch of hard-bitten criminals when she was sixteen had turned out to be an enlightening experience. When she told them why the cops had thrown her in with them, they proceeded to give her a dissertation on the finer points of picking locks. Though she had never put her knowledge to the test, she felt she stood a chance of accomplishing her goal.

Knowing that Britt intended to turn on the security system before he left, she had opened one of the bedroom windows wide enough so she could sneak out when the time came. Stashing her tools in a pillowcase, she slipped through the bedroom window onto the porch roof and then slithered down the pretty column on the corner of the porch. Dropping lightly to the ground, she turned to stare at the Taylor house. An icy chill gripped her as she focused on the hulking monstrosity built by Evelyn’s grandfather. The windows appeared like gaping mouths ready to swallow her up. She sensed that something waited for her inside the walls.

She gulped and squared her shoulders. Walking across the driveway, she reassured herself that the only thing lurking in the house were the spirits of those long past, filmy essences who couldn’t harm her. She clutched the cross at her neck and again prayed, this time for her own safety against the specters that wafted through the rooms.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine fit the key into the lock on the back door. It opened with a small click, and she stepped into the dark kitchen. Her heart sank. She had forgotten the most important tool of all, a flashlight. The memory of her childhood terror in the closet came back to haunt her. She hated the dark but she dared not turn on a light in case Aunt Evelyn and Drew returned.

Fighting down her fear, she moved silently through the kitchen, across the hall until she reached the locked door to the study.

She shook her head and let out a small chuckle, mocking herself as she struggled to jam the credit card against the bolt. She was still a very inept burglar. Without a small beam of light to aid her, she didn’t stand a chance. For a moment, she considered going back to Britt’s house, but she probably didn’t have time. If she intended to find a spell to keep Britt safe, she had to do this now. She sensed a growing danger coming closer and shivered. It felt as though the black clouds that had overwhelmed Britt and her in the small boat on the river were returning to annihilate her.

A candle. The idea popped into Catherine’s mind. Yes, of course. The soft glow of a flame would be a great help and it shouldn’t be too noticeable from outside. Aunt Evelyn always kept fine tapers in the silver candlesticks on the sideboard in the dining room and a good supply of spare candles along with matches lay in the first drawer on the right-hand side.

With a shaky breath, Catherine stumbled down the hall, every nerve tensed as each footfall sent squeaky protests from the parquet floor. She was conscious of vibrations that could only come from those phantoms that lingered beyond her sight. A deep chill settled in her bones with the disturbing impression that others watched her and listened to her movements.

At the entry to the dining room, Catherine stopped. Her heart pounded loudly. The impenetrable gloom reminded her so strongly of the endless abyss that she could almost hear the wailing of the lost souls. She wanted to run and never look back.

Taking control of her impulses, she closed her eyes and inhaled. Her nostrils filled with the gentle scents of lemon and wax. No monstrous, rotting horror lived here. She berated herself for her lack of courage. She could not turn back now. Catherine blinked her eyes and frowned, glancing around the murky room. Not even a stray beam of light from a passing car on the road could penetrate the heavy brocade that draped the dining room windows.

She thought of Britt and his kisses. The memory sent a blinding, joyous hope racing through her. She longed so desperately to abandon herself to the wild delight she knew she would experience in his arms, but the horrible vision of his death hung over her. Why had she been granted the gift of foresight if she couldn’t use it to prevent tragedy?

Britt ignored her warnings just as her uncle had, even though Uncle Mike was thoroughly aware of the accuracy of her visions. If only she had a charm, or a potion, some magic spell...

She was so in love with Britt, she must be losing her mind. If he could read her thoughts, he’d declare she was a witch.

Witches and hands. Terrible, bloody hands. Catherine drew in a sharp breath as her father’s words came back to her. She clutched her arms tightly around herself. In her father’s tortured mind, nothing made sense. Yet the ghastly deaths of her mother, Evelyn’s first husband, and the burglar bore a macabre resemblance to each other.

Catherine straightened up and peered into the darkness. She couldn’t think about all that now. She would find that book, feed Britt some powerful herb and save him. She fumbled around, bumping into the table and tripping over the edge of Aunt Evelyn’s Aubusson rug. Once she reached the sideboard, she located the matches with ease. With the first strike, the match blazed and Catherine touched the flame to the candle.

The soft, flickering glow only made the shadows appear more menacing. Swallowing a great lump of fear, Catherine lifted the silver candlestick and tiptoed back as quietly as she could until she stood before the door to the study. She bent down, peered at the lock and smiled. Child’s play. Aunt Evelyn hadn’t changed it. Beneath the sparkly glass knob was a big, fat keyhole.

Within seconds, Catherine had opened the door. She gathered up the tool-filled pillowcase, clutched the candle, and stepped inside the forbidden room, shutting the door behind her. A shiver went up her spine as if she had just sealed her doom. For a moment, fear constricted her lungs and she thought she wouldn’t be able to breathe. Only her belief that Britt could be in imminent danger forced her to fight against the terror that held her in a perilous grip.

Her heart plummeted as she gazed up at all the books lining the shelves that went from the floor to the top of the twelve-foot ceiling. She bit her lip as she glanced at her watch. It would take too long to search through all those volumes. She would be discovered long before she found the book.

The low groan of a creaking timber had Catherine panicking. She jumped and dashed for the door but something stopped her. She cried in alarm as she tried to reach out and grab the doorknob but some invisible force held her back and numbed her inside.

I will show you where the book is.

The words were not spoken aloud. They rushed into Catherine’s mind, but she could easily recognize the melodic Irish inflection in the sentence. Uncle Mike was here. Her mouth turned dry, but she held out her trembling fingers.

"Okay, take my hand," Catherine whispered. Instantly, she felt a tug and found herself being led gently across the room to a shelf at eye-level. Her hand was placed upon a worn, leather-bound book. She curled her fingers around it and pulled it out.

Shaking badly, Catherine sank into the chair behind Uncle Mike’s desk, placing the hefty tome on the blotter in front of her. She had never seen an antique book quite like this one. The leather cover had cracked with age and it smelled musty.

Her fingers tingled as she ran them over an embossed design on the cover. The design looked typically Celtic and she could see that paint had once brightened the intricate twisted lines, but only dull stains remained where the color had been. As she stared at the pattern, Catherine became curiously light-headed. She blinked her eyes, sat up straighter, and took a deep breath. She opened the cover. Faded, brown strokes marched across the page like so many hen tracks. All her hopes drained away. She lay her head down on the desk and sobbed.

"It’s in Gaelic."

With her head buried in her arms, she wept. Who could she get to translate it? And if she did find someone who could decipher the ancient scrawl, would they be willing to keep mum about the spells? Would they think she was a witch? Above all, by the time she discovered some magic potion, Britt could be dead. She sensed the advancing danger drawing nearer like the silent gliding of a venomous snake.

She heard the flipping of pages. She lifted her head. The book now lay open at the back. Taped to the thick vellum on the inside of the back cover was a computer diskette. The word, "Translation," had been neatly printed on the label in Uncle Mike’s handwriting with a red felt-tip pen.

Overwhelmed, Catherine closed the book and clutched it to her breast. She held her legacy, whatever it might be, in her hands.

"Thank you, Uncle Mike," she whispered. The flame of the candle dipped low and the shadows loomed larger in the room. Suddenly, the temperature of the air turned icy and Catherine held back a cry. Uncle Mike wasn’t with her anymore. Some other more threatening shade filled the atmosphere with peril.

"Come back!" she called. She needed answers only Uncle Mike could give her. But the malevolence swirled around in the shadows and the smell of death stung Catherine’s nostrils.

She had to escape. She grabbed the pillowcase, gently placing the book inside with the tools. Holding it tucked tightly under her arm, she snatched the candle but her sudden movement caused the unsteady flame to die.

Left in total darkness, Catherine wanted to scream, but her throat had closed up. Suffocating dread pressed in on her. She stepped blindly forward and ran into a tall lamp, dropping her precious bundle. Heart thundering, she bent down to feel along the floor for the pillowcase. One hand touched the ornate carvings of her uncle’s desk and she heard a click, then a whoosh.

Catherine found herself bathed in light coming from what appeared to be an empty closet. Locating the pillowcase, she picked it up and stepped gingerly up to the closet. As she peered in, the hair on the back of her neck stood up. The walls of the cubicle, paneled in the same dark-stained walnut as the bookshelves, had no shelves, and no rod. So what kind of closet was it?

Catherine didn’t want to know. She whirled and raced to leave. Suddenly, the door to the study opened and the lights in the room blazed to life.

"Breaking and entering again, Catherine! Why you swore to me that you had given it up," Drew stated caustically.

Catherine squinted in the brightness. She’d been caught. However, her first reaction was not fear but puzzlement. Drew stood in the doorway with a bandage on his nose and a long row of stitches running from his forehead to his chin. But his mind, as always, remained shut to her probing.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

Drew sighed. "You were right, my dear step cousin-in-law. I imbibed too much last night and wound up driving my Jag into a tree on Rivershire Road. Totaled it. But I never liked the color anyway."

"I’m sorry. How are you feeling? Are you in a lot of pain?" Catherine frowned.

Drew gave a derisive laugh. "Catherine--always the sweet little nurse. I remember you bathing my head with icy cloths one time when I had a fever. I woke up and thought you were an angel. I didn’t tease you after that for at least a month. Remember?"

Catherine nodded, but inside, the fear started curling in her stomach. She needed to hurry. She glanced back at the strange empty closet.

"I see you’ve discovered great-grandfather’s stockroom for illicit booze. Nifty little hiding place, isn’t it?" Drew walked into the study and tapped his foot against her uncle’s desk. The bookshelves slid back into place, and the closet disappeared.

Catherine didn’t know what to say. The purported stories about rum running were obviously true. The wealth of the family came from an illegal activity--and yet Evelyn had the nerve to harp on Catherine’s run-in with the law! The heat of anger flickered briefly but her anxiety was stronger. She had to get out of here. She wanted to head off to the Daily Press where she could use one of their computers to run the translation on the diskette and print it out.

"I didn’t mean to open the closet. It was an accident. But I’ll be going now," Catherine smiled as she backed out of the room. "If you need any help, give a call."

"Aren’t you interested in being a house sitter for that family I mentioned?" Drew asked.

She hesitated. It had been a tempting offer, though she wasn’t sure she could trust Drew. "Well, yes. But I have to get back to the Daily Press. There’s something I forgot to do at work today."

She saw Drew glance at the pillowcase and her heart sped up. But he merely grinned wider.

"How are you going to get to Rivershire? I see your house mate isn’t home and when I went to check on my car at Sam’s garage, I saw your Caprice on the lift."

She didn’t like the way his green eyes narrowed. A chill went through her.

"I’ll simply call a cab, of course," she spun around to beat a hasty retreat.

"This isn’t New York City, my dear," Drew called after her. "You can’t stand by the road and expect a cab to pull up when you raise your hand."

Annoyed, Catherine turned back to give him a fierce retort. "I know that!"

"The closest taxi company is in Rivershire. When you call them they have to drive all the way out here, and then you have to ride all the way back to Rivershire in the cab. I hope you’re not in a hurry."

She was in a hurry. The danger hemmed right up against her. She couldn’t let Britt die--not without making some effort to change the course of events. She took in a deep breath to steady herself. "I’ll manage."

"I can get you there in fifteen minutes," Drew boasted.

"But your car--"

"My sailboat is right outside and there’s a good stiff wind tonight."

"It doesn’t leak anymore?" she questioned.

"It needed a minor repair, that’s all."

"But it’s dark outside."

"I have lights. And I won’t even charge you." He raised his eyebrows and waited.

Catherine covered her eyes. She was cold, scared, and hoping to work a miracle. God. She didn’t even know where Britt had gone.

"Okay. I-I’ll join you in a minute," she agreed. She raced out of the house and ran across the driveway before she remembered Britt’s security system. While she had slithered down the porch pole easily, she would have a much tougher time climbing up into the window she had left open.

All she really needed was the diskette. She pulled the book out of the pillowcase, opened it and carefully peeled away the tape to free the diskette. Tucking the book back into the pillowcase with the tools, she placed the bundle on Britt’s back steps. This wasn’t New York City and the odds were that the precious book would remain undisturbed.

She stuffed the diskette into the back pocket of her jeans.

* * *

"You don’t look well, my dear." Drew stood at the wheel as the sailboat raced along the dark river. Catherine didn’t like the way the deck tilted. It made her stomach queasy.

She gulped and tried to smile. "I’d be all right if the deck was flat."

Drew laughed. "We’ll have to go slower, then. I thought you were in a hurry."

Catherine covered her mouth. She felt like retching.

"Not a very good sailor are you?" Drew shook his head. He snapped at a line, the sail slid down, and the boat leveled out. Then he let out the anchor.

"Don’t stop!" Catherine cried. "I have to get there soon."

"A little glass of wine and the slanting deck won’t bother you a bit," he assured her.

The way Catherine’s insides sloshed around reminded her of the way a goldfish bowl reacted when it was lifted and carried. "I don’t think I could--" she covered her mouth again and moaned.

"I think you need something stronger than wine--a good dose of brandy, perhaps." He disappeared into the cabin and emerged a few minutes later carrying a brandy snifter. He handed it to Catherine.

Fighting back another wave of nausea, Catherine held the glass unsteadily and stared at the swirling brown liquid.

"I just don’t think--"

"Now, now. Calm down, relax. Take a look at the horizon, it isn’t lopsided any more. Is it?" Drew switched off the lamps. "See all the lights shining on the shoreline?"

Catherine nodded her head. Drew was being so kind to her, which wasn’t normal for him. Maybe she had misjudged him.

"Come on, drink up the brandy. Before you know it you won’t be feeling a thing."

The words, along with his infamous practiced grin, set off a warning inside Catherine’s head. No, she had never misjudged his character. Two months after that day she had spent hours nursing his fever, he had handed her a concoction to drink that was one part honey and two parts vodka. She felt so weird after the first few sips she told her father. Her father probably would have pulverized Drew if Uncle Mike hadn’t prevented it.

The water lapped gently against the side of the yacht and the rigging clanked with the swaying of the small waves. Catherine took in a ragged breath.

"Hurry up. Drink the brandy."

There was no mistaking the note of impatience in his voice.

"I’m feeling better now." She settled the glass into one of the cup holders. "I’ll pass on the drink. I have to work once I get to Rivershire. I can’t walk into the office with liquor on my breath."

Drew scowled. Catherine felt uncomfortable in the formidable silence that followed.

Then she heard a mechanical click and gasped when she saw a switchblade in Drew’s hand. The gleaming blade caught the reflection of the lights from the distant shore.

"Drink it, now," he growled.

Chapter Eighteen

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. The words repeated, building up to a crescendo in Britt’s mind. He drove back along Rivershire Road with his foot pressing the pedal closer and closer to the floor while adrenaline pulsed through his system. His heart raced with the pistons in the engine. But he had no idea why.

Sure, Heddy had failed to show up for the appointment, but that was nothing new. She’d never had time for him. When they were married, she would schedule their lovemaking into her busy calendar and often fail to appear, usually because she went chasing after a story that she felt sure would catapult her to fame. Though she was a celebrity already as the daughter of one of the wealthiest investment bankers in the world, she loathed the connection. Heddy yearned for the spotlight to shine on her and no one else.

Originally, Britt believed Heddy’s drive was an admirable trait. It took time for him to realize that her overwhelming desire to succeed had the earmarks of an obsession.

How different Catherine seemed in comparison. He had to admit that the prestige her father had endowed upon her didn’t seem to adversely affect her. She worked hard. Hell. She was a whiz with the English language. She didn’t have that toughness that some women like Heddy develop. Heddy pushed herself to win and couldn’t stand coming out second best. So far, Catherine only wanted to write a good story. She didn’t seem to care about winning a prize. When he tried to explain to her what a coup they had garnered in being granted that Alzheimer series, she simply shrugged, mentioning that she hoped they could do justice to the subject.

Damn. Britt swore. Catherine was too sweet and too vulnerable, and he was a jerk for leaving her alone. He forced himself to let up on the accelerator as he neared the bridge. If he went zipping across the narrow span, the bridge operator would undoubtedly write down his plate number and inform the police. It took a will of iron for Britt to crawl sedately from one end of the bridge to the other. All the while, his heart kept pounding.

He turned onto Main Street in Gull Haven. Ahead of him the road stretched out, straight and empty of any traffic, typical of a weekday night in the small seaside town.

Hurry. Hurry! The demand pressed upon him. He gave up fighting against the compulsive force. He drew his mouth into a grim line and floored the accelerator. The rock wall on his right became a wavy blur. He didn’t slow down until he neared his own driveway.

As he braked, his headlight caught the gleam of a white sail fluttering in the night. Stepping out of his car, he heard the clanking of the rigging as the wind filled the sail and the boat pulled away from the bulkhead. Curious, he hurried up to the edge of the tarred timbers and frowned. Even without the running lights, he would have recognized the distinctive shape of Drew’s yacht, the Fomorian. The sleek craft’s design had earned it a reputation for unbeatable speed.

At the helm, Drew’s blond hair glowed like a halo in the night. A mighty gust blew in off the ocean and threw itself against the sail. The bow sliced through the choppy waters of the channel, spewing up a froth of white spray. Before the sailboat disappeared into the distance, Britt noticed a small profile starkly silhouetted in the light of one of the lamps.

Catherine!

What was she doing in Drew’s company? Britt’s heart ceased its incessant thundering and froze. He felt as if he stood at the edge of a precipice, at the end of the world.

Hurry! The warning pounded insistently. Britt threw up his hands. This was insanity! What was he supposed to do? Dive into the channel? By what psychological process could a voice manifest itself inside his brain? Damn. If he stepped into a psychiatrist’s office right now, they would put him into a straitjacket.

He spun around and headed to the back door. On the top step, he saw the pillowcase. Wary of unmarked packages, he tapped it with his shoe. With some clanking and a heavy thud, it fell down to the lower step.

Britt scooped it up and peered inside. He reddened with anger when he saw his tools at the bottom of the case. Had Catherine snatched them? And what was the old musty book doing there? He opened the door and heard the warning beeps of his security system. Hurrying to punch in the code, he wondered how Catherine had left the house without setting off the alarm.

He tossed the pillowcase and its contents on the table in the kitchen. Grabbing the tools first, he intended to put them back in their rightful place. As he touched them, his body chilled. Mike had given him the tools as a present. While Britt had used them hundreds of times with complete familiarity, the steel now looked different somehow--darker.

The atmosphere of the entire room grew cold and the bare bulb in the fixture dimmed dramatically, throwing the room into shadow. Britt rubbed his hands together to warm them. The old furnace was acting up again, shorting out the faulty wiring in the house.

He tried picking up the tools again, but his hand snapped back after the first tentative touch. The handle of his screwdriver sent a shock of pain through his fingertips. He watched in amazement as a frosty rime spread rapidly, coating the tools.

As he wiped away the cold sweat on his forehead with his shirtsleeves, his gaze fell on the strange cover of the ancient book. Following the trail of the intricate intersecting lines, he started to feel lightheaded. He gripped the table to steady himself, assuming now that he was ill. Yet he couldn’t tear himself away from studying the fascinating pattern of the lines.

His vision blurred as if a fog had filtered into his kitchen. An icy, invisible force clamped around his hand and lifted it to the edge of the book, pushing the cover open. Through the misty gray atmosphere, Britt saw a picture form. Mesmerized with fear, he saw the Fomorian and its two passengers materialize in front of him over the page in the book--a small, living image. He barely breathed.

Catherine, her eyes round and fearful, faced Drew. They both swayed as the sailboat rocked, slapped by the gentle waves of the river.

A flash of light glinted against something held in Drew’s hand. Britt squinted at the picture. It became clearer and he felt a pain squeeze his heart. Drew held the blade of a knife to Catherine’s neck.

Hurry!

This time, Britt did not question the command. He sprang into action, spurred on by the terrifying image. He rushed out the door, sped across the drive, leaped over the bulkhead and landed in his motorboat. Grabbing the pullcord on the engine, he gave it a vicious yank. The engine sprang to life.

As Britt hurriedly untied the lines, he glanced back up at the edge of the tarred timbers. A strange glow, like a phosphorescent cloud, swirled at the top of one piling. He had no time to wonder at the atmospheric phenomena. He grabbed the wheel and pressed the accelerator forward. The propeller churned up a mass of foam and the boat’s bow pointed skyward before it surged forward into the night.

* * *

"I’m not heartless," Drew hissed. "You’re a pretty step-cousin and I want to make this easy on you. I’ve grown fond of you. I’ve enjoyed all of our altercations over the years. But you’ve made us angry."

"Us?" Catherine croaked.

"The others and me," Drew explained.

Catherine closed her eyes as the cold steel bit into her flesh. She felt the warm trickle of her own blood. Shock held her rigid.

"I could always feel them, the others, in the house," she whispered.

"We thought so. You’re a fatal mistake. An experiment gone awry. Mike assured us that your power could be used for our purposes, but obviously, he made a grave miscalculation."

Power! Catherine repeated the word like a mantra to herself and remembered the diskette in her back pocket. Power. Control. A force she could learn to harness. She could save Britt. And herself, as well. She opened her eyes and met Drew’s narrowed gaze with steely calm.

Drew picked up the brandy snifter. "You won’t feel any pain with this." The glint in his eyes chipped away at the fragile check she had placed on her emotions.

"Okay. I’ll drink it," she agreed.

His mouth quirked up on one side. He gave a short snort and removed the knife. "That’s better. It will all be over quickly this way," he assured her.

Catherine’s fingers trembled slightly as she fumbled for the glass. She took a deep breath, praying that since Drew’s mind had always been locked to her probing, her mind was firmly shut to his.

"Will it taste bitter?" she questioned on a sigh.

"It shouldn’t. I used a large amount of honey," he grinned wickedly.

Catherine nodded. She stared at the amber liquid. Lifting the glass slowly to her lips, she glanced down at Drew’s hand. He clicked the blade of his knife back into the handle. She swung the glass out, splashing Drew with its contents.

"Why you..." he swore an oath and swiped at the sticky liquid with his hands. Holding the stem of the glass, Catherine slammed the brandy snifter against the side of the boat. The rim fell away, leaving a jagged edge--a weapon, of sorts.

Catherine glanced around and felt a new wave of panic overtake her. She was all alone in the middle of the river with a madman. Her screams would have little effect. How long could she hold him off?

"You’ve only made it harder on yourself," Drew growled. He casually dipped his handkerchief into the river and wiped his face clean. "You never did learn to swim. Why don’t you try it now."

She clutched at the roof of the cabin to steady herself. "It would be so much neater if I just drowned myself."

"Yes," he sneered.

Catherine glanced at the inky blackness and pain gripped her heart. It reminded her of the abyss. If she fell in would she be lost forever in one of her worst nightmares? A shadowy soul in endless torment?

Drew picked up a length of rope and wound it around his arm. Catherine stiffened.

"What did you mean when you said I was an experiment?" she asked. If there were answers, she wanted them now.

"I was told it was a case of selective breeding, but it didn’t work out as the others had hoped it would."

Catherine’s hand went to her throat as she watched him wrap the end of the rope into a bowline. Did he intend to hang her?

"What did they expect?" she croaked out the question.

Drew laughed as he tried the knot. It held fast. "They thought that your mother’s fairy blood could enhance the superior qualities of your father’s Druidic line."

"The Druids were priests," Catherine corrected. "My father was a bard." She remembered her father telling her gravely, You are a bard, too. "Besides, there aren’t any true Druids. The Romans outlawed the Druids in England and no contemporary Druids have ever proven an unbroken lineage with the ancients."

"Always so clever and so informed. Aren’t you, dear Catherine?" He pulled back a tarp to reveal a cinder block. He tied one end of the rope to the heavy weight. Catherine stifled a cry by clamping her hand over her mouth.

"The Romans did not conquer Ireland. The Druids lived on, though with Christianity we lost our former status as the equal of kings. We call ourselves the Dead Hand now."

The sudden image of her mother’s hands resting in a basket filled her mind and sickened her. Had her mother been the victim of a secret and deadly society?

"The church consciously deleted references to those they considered pagans. They found the practice of ritualistic human sacrifices abhorrent." His gaze swept her up and down.

"My father wouldn’t lie to me," she whispered as the blood pooled in her feet. What if he had? What if she were to be the next human sacrifice? Had her mother’s death, Uncle Mike’s--and even the burglar’s gruesome end been planned to appease an archaic god?

"Your father failed us. He abandoned all the precepts of the others. Ours is an oral tradition and he allowed the knowledge to die," Drew growled as he hefted an oar, weighing it in his hands.

"My father had Alzheimer’s disease. He couldn’t remember his own name!" Catherine retorted.

Drew swung the oar in a wide arc. "Your mother possessed an unusual amount of power. The others believe she caused him to forget. It was why she had to die."

No. None of this was real. This couldn’t be happening to her. She must have passed through the abyss without even being aware of it this time. To be sure, she ran her finger along the keen edge of the shattered glass. She winced at the pain and knew the truth. This was not a vision. Grimly, she watched as a dark trickle splattered onto the white cabin’s roof. For a fleeting moment, she recalled the cut on

Britt’s finger that she had so lovingly bandaged. In the spreading pool of crimson a small picture materialized, an image of Britt leaping into his boat and starting the engine.

Catherine clutched the cross at her neck. The blood still dripped from her cut and coated the ornament with a slick wetness. She whispered a small prayer. The old talisman from her mother grew warm.

"Mike was always suspect. He made a great show of being one of us, however he intended to take you out of our reach. Luckily, we discovered his plan."

"You killed him?" Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"No. There are those better suited for working with explosives," Drew flashed his infamous grin at her. "I am skilled in the art of slaying with my hands."

With a detached numbness sweeping through her, Catherine remembered Drew as a teenager practicing with his knives. He would hurl them at a paper figure pinned to scraps of driftwood behind the house, aiming for the heart.

Suddenly, with one deft stroke he swung the oar and knocked the glass out of her hand. He pinned her to the cabin roof and yanked at the cross around her neck, breaking the chain.

Drew roared in agony. His hand shook as he stared at the small silver object in his hand. With a violent oath, he flung the cross into the water.

"No!" Catherine cried.

Still swearing, Drew released the oar and freed Catherine. She scrambled away only to sink to her knees at the starboard side and stare down into the depths of the flowing river. Her mother’s last gift to her was gone. Irretrievably lost. Forever.

In despair, she thought of joining the amulet--diving deep down into the silent world she had always feared, but then a sweet haunting music filled the air while a phosphorescent glow shimmered up from the water, illuminating the sailboat with an eerie light. She shivered as an odd vibration went through her and she realized that for the first time she could read the workings of Drew’s evil mind.

She glanced back at him. His face had contorted into a tormented grimace as he stared with wild, wide eyes at his hand. In the strange, greenish brightness she could see the ugly red blisters on his palm. The old cross had burned him.

She leapt to her feet. At least with him slightly handicapped, there was a chance for her. Hurriedly, she began to search for a lifejacket. Where did he keep them? She raced to the bow while Drew stalked after her in measured steps. He had discarded the oar and picked up the knife again. From the way he held the blade and slung back his arm, it was all too clear what he intended to do to her. Her blood chilled at his depravity and tears blurred her vision.

Catherine gasped as the knife skimmed her right ear and landed with a sickening thud in the wooden mast. She stumbled back to the stern, well aware that her only escape was the murky water of the river. Drowning would be merciful compared to the sharp slashes of a knife in Drew’s frenzied hand. She paused in front of the cabin door and gulped, fortifying herself to jump up on the stern and dive into the oddly gleaming water.

Above her sobs, she heard the rumble of an engine. In the next second, a splintering crash knocked her down to the deck. Another shock followed and she was thrown against the cabin door. It swung open and she tumbled down the stairway, landing at the bottom, dazed and disoriented. Above her, she was vaguely aware of a loud thumping. Or did the pounding come from inside her own head?

She blinked. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus. Everything kept spinning. Holding her head in her hands, she shut her eyes. Jumbled by the fall, her brain seemed filled with fog and a numb lethargy crept over her.

Get up. The words coaxed gently. She felt a gentle breeze and some of the cloudiness in her mind dissipated. She opened her eyes slowly, making a concerted effort to keep her gaze locked on a cabinet knob gleaming in the dim light. Taking a deep breath, she reached up and grabbed the edge of the countertop to pull herself up. Her knees shook so badly she didn’t know if they would hold her steady.

She glanced around her and found she stood in a narrow passage that formed the galley of the cabin. In front of her was a small stove. To her left, entered from the stairway, was the head--a tiny bathroom. She thought of locking herself in there, but Drew could probably break the door down.

The noise overhead ended abruptly. Catherine turned around, already aware of a number of swollen bruises caused by her fall. She thought she might find a kitchen knife in one of the drawers of the galley, something that would intimidate Drew long enough for her to snatch a lifejacket and make a jump for freedom. She leaned toward the drawers by the miniature sink and froze.

At first, she didn’t believe that she really saw the two bloodless hands nestling in the stainless steel. In the poor light, with her head still reeling, she feared she imagined the horror. Truly this time she had lost all sense of reality and entered that dreadful state where her father had spent his last years.

Gulping down a wave of nausea, Catherine forced herself to reach into the sink. She could be suffering from a concussion. She might wind up touching only empty air. Though what if she touched the grisly severed flesh of the two hands she thought she saw in the sink? What if those two macabre but lifeless hands felt cold against her fingertips? Could they still be a figment of her imagination?

The contact sent black sorrow sweeping over her. The hands were real enough. She knew instantly that these were the hands of the burglar. The visions came rolling back into her mind--the horrible night at the mansion, the gruesome resting site in the bottom of the muddy riverbed. Catherine wailed, feeling all the pain, all over again, wishing she could end it.

Witches and hands. Terrible, bloody hands. Her father’s words haunted her. She saw her mother’s hands in the basket. She remembered the screams piercing the night with pain and the ache that never left her. All around her, the banshees shrieked.

"Catherine! Catherine! Where are you?"

The howling ended. Had the banshees swirled and danced in the cabin? Or had she caused the hollow keening?

"Catherine! Thank God!"

She turned to see Britt silhouetted in the doorway of the cabin. Or did he, too, actually exist only in the shattered realms of her mind?

In the semi-darkness, he groped his way down the stairs, stumbling into the narrow galley. Catherine frowned. Apparitions weren’t clumsy. A glimmer of hope, like the warmth from sunshine grew in her heart.

"Are you hurt? If he did anything..."

She reached out to him. Beneath the rage in his tone lay an ocean of concern. Love thrilled through Catherine. He clutched her against him. She took in a deep breath and reveled in the scent of him. He was real.

Her hands slid around his back. His heart thundered in her ear. Heat enveloped her along with a blanketing sense of safety. The danger had passed. For now.

She felt him stiffen and glanced up into his face. She saw his eyes widen as he stared down into the sink at the hideously mangled hands.

"My God! What in heaven’s name...?"

"They’re the burglar’s hands. Drew’s night watchman." Her voice sounded rusty.

Britt’s eyes narrowed to study her, but a series a waves hit the boat and nearly sent them both sprawling on the galley’s floor.

"Let’s get out of here," he urged.

"Drew?" she whispered.

"He’s out cold, but I don’t want to be here when he wakes up."

Catherine nodded. She realized that the odd gleam illuminating the night was fading. Her heart started to pick up its pace. She sensed that when the light vanished, evil would reign again.

Britt guided her along with his strong arm around her waist. On the deck, Drew lay crumpled over the boom. A few feet away, Catherine saw his knife embedded in the cabin’s roof.

Look at his wrist. The voice, Uncle Mike’s voice, sighed softly through her mind as though it came from far away.

"Wait, Britt," Catherine fought against her inclination to stay within the shelter of his arm. She had to obey the command.

"What are you doing?" Britt frowned.

Catherine bent down and reached for Drew’s left hand. He did not stir. She slid the gold-banded watch off his wrist and gasped. Beneath, she saw the mark--a jagged scar circling around the flesh.

Chapter Nineteen

"Don’t waste your time taking me to the hospital because I will not walk in," Catherine stated.

Britt heard the steel in her tone. She sat ramrod straight as he eased his boat away from Drew’s.

"Are you sure you’ll be okay?" he asked. She nodded stiffly. The doubts started battering his mind, but he pushed them aside.

"Okay. Then we’re heading right to the police." He watched as a small shiver coursed through her, causing her shoulders to tremble. Almost instantly, her mouth flattened into a grim line, she tossed back her head and quelled any sign of emotion.

He felt a strong tug at his heart. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, and lose his hands in her silken hair. He could take away the horror. Her determined efforts to bury her terror wouldn’t work. Whatever had happened on Drew’s boat would still be there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to swallow her up in countless nightmares.

A cold shiver went up Britt’s spine. What would have happened if he hadn’t raced to her aid? But he couldn’t think about that now. He jammed the throttle forward and plowed through the water with reckless speed until they tied up near the Gull Haven police station.

The rookie cop on duty took forever with Britt’s complaint. By the time a call went out to the marine police and a search began, both the Fomorian and its owner had vanished.

Disgusted with the plodding performance of the law, Britt led Catherine back to his motorboat. She stumbled in the darkness and leaned heavily on his arm as she clambered back into the boat. Weariness weighed on him, too, and he cruised along the channel slowly toward his home.

"You take care of those cuts and bruises the moment I pull in," he ordered.

"I will." She sighed.

Like an instant replay at half time, Britt’s struggle with Drew crashed down upon his mind. He swallowed the fear. Thank God that oar had been there, it had served as his only weapon. A sense of futility filled him with rage--Drew might still get away.

"Why did you ever get in the boat with Drew?" he barked.

She started at his question and wrapped her arms about her. "I wanted a ride back to the Press and he offered to get me there quickly."

Britt frowned. "What were you going to do there? Read more back issues in the morgue? You could have waited until tomorrow."

She simply nodded, her head bent, her hair a midnight waterfall cascading down, effectively masking her expression.

The waning moon trailed its arc across the sky. They were all alone, a tiny vessel floating on a vast black world. The tide was going out and he could feel the engine straining against the current. Without power, the water could carry them far out to sea. It made Britt feel insignificant. He remembered Mike’s moonlight excursions. What had Mike seen and done at this same hour on the river?

The monotonous rumble of the motor started the questions bombarding Britt’s mind as the strange details of the night assailed him. What was that odd glow around Drew’s sailboat? It had emanated from the water. Had he really heard a voice? What about that old book? The swirling glow on the piling as he sped away from the bulkhead? And the hands in the sink? Good God. Had he really seen them? His stomach clenched.

Catherine remained quiet. Along with the nick on her neck and the bloodstains on her hand, she sported a livid bruise over her right eyebrow. He began to wonder about her apparent serenity. Perhaps he shouldn’t have listened to her. He should have whisked her off to the hospital despite her protests.

He gave her a sidelong glance. He watched as she slipped a computer disk out of her back pocket and stared at it. Then she wiped it carefully with a tissue, turning it over and running her finger over it thoroughly as if trying to find a bump or a crack.

"What’s that?" he asked.

She jumped and clutched the disk to her bosom. "J-just something I was working on--for the Alzheimer series."

Damn. She was lying again. Britt sighed. It didn’t really matter right now. Beyond the bend in the channel, his house came into view.

* * *

Catherine smeared antiseptic on her neck and stuck a bandage over the small cut. Next, she took care of the self-inflicted wound on her finger. She squinted at the mirror in Britt’s bathroom. Though the glass needed resilvering, she couldn’t miss the ugly bruise on her forehead. With make-up, she could mask most of it. The other sore areas on her body nobody would see. She sighed. It was the power that worried her. She could feel it coursing through her and she wondered if it showed.

She stared into the dark mirror. Did her eyes look brighter or larger? Had an uncommon glow bloomed on her cheeks? It was difficult to tell in the smoky glass. Everything had changed the moment the old Celtic cross sank to the bottom of the river. At that moment, it felt as if she had shed her cocoon--as if all her life she’d been swaddled in layers of soft silk but now she had risen to a new beginning.

She shook her head and grimaced. Or maybe she had hit her head too hard. For all that she had gone through, she didn’t feel the least bit tired. Shrugging, she held up her hand to the light and studied it. Nothing new. It was the hand she’d been born with.

The memory of the scar on Drew’s wrist came slamming back at her and with it all the panic of the night. Her insides twisted with a sharp pain. She could still taste the fear. But what chilled her to the core was the sensation of evil hovering nearby. The others were out there, somewhere. Twisted and demonic.

She held back a sob. Her father had been one of them. She didn’t want it to be true, but there could be no denying that her father had worn the same scar as Drew and the burglar.

So how could she explain her father’s adherence to a standard, organized religion? If he did it only for her sake, he had given an Oscar-winning performance. On the other hand, Drew had never appeared to be devoted to any type of religion other than the worship of wealth. He did not consult his horoscope or subscribe to any New Age theories which would have marked him as a mystic like the ancient Druids.

She lowered her head into her hands. Drew had been assigned to kill her. She felt certain that the others would have promised him a higher rank in their organization if he completed the task. He had failed. Who would be appointed the job next?

One hand slid down to the computer disk in her pocket but its presence did not reassure her. She prayed that it contained answers and not just the fanciful tales her Uncle Mike had always favored. She was now doubly indebted to Britt. Without his aid, she would have died. A cold chill squeezed her heart at the thought that she might lose Britt if the translation of the old book contained only whimsical legends.

A memory filtered into her consciousness of Uncle Mike telling her about La-Bel-Taine, the day of the sacred Baal fire, a May celebration in ancient Ireland. The Druids lit great fires and drove cattle between them to safeguard the herds. The people believed that the fire would purify the animals. But the first of May was well past. Besides, this was not an agrarian society trying to guarantee plenty of milk for the summer.

She gripped the edge of the sink. No. If there were Druids here they did not adhere to any ancient principles.

A knock on the bathroom door scattered her twisted thoughts.

"How about some ice for that bruise?" Britt’s voice resonated through the solid wood. His warm tone instantly cast away the demons that haunted her.

She opened the door to see him standing there looking like a legendary god. Or perhaps Finn mac Cool, the most celebrated of Irish heroes, except for the fact that his hand held an ice pack instead of a sword.

"Are you sure you didn’t black out?" he asked as he placed the ice over the swollen spot.

She reached up to hold the ice pack in place and touched his hand instead. She drew in a tight breath as if the crisp sting of a winter morning pierced her lungs. With an ache, she realized the shocking truth about herself. While the thoughts in Britt’s mind had always been open to her scanning, only now with her newfound sensitivity had she become aware that within her own psyche there were hopes and dreams she had completely buried.

The truth was that she wanted to give herself to Britt. The consequences didn’t matter. He was magnificent. All the reasons why it would be insane to make love with him blew away like the clouds after a rain. Quite simply, he was her hero. And tomorrow didn’t really matter at all after what she had been through tonight. She wouldn’t have had a tomorrow except for Britt.

"Any other bruises I should know about?" he asked.

She nodded hesitantly as for one terrifying second, she recalled the disastrous romance she’d had in college. The experience had effectively destroyed her confidence in her sexual ability. But the miniature vision she had seen in her mug of Britt with her amid tangled blankets reassured her. The sweet smiles on their faces in the tiny vignette gave her courage.

"Where are they?" he insisted.

She heard the huskiness in his voice and smiled shyly. With unsteady fingers she fumbled at the buttons on her blouse. With the task done, she slipped the blouse from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Her heart thundered and she closed her eyes as Britt swore.

"I should have hit him harder." Britt slid the ice pack down to her shoulder.

Catherine opened her eyes, gulped, and took in a ragged breath. "It’ll feel better if you kiss it," she whispered.

His hands stilled on her shoulder. She gazed up into his smoldering eyes and knew he stood there weighing his decision. She winced inwardly, feeling foolish. She sought for the old talisman before she remembered that it lay at the bottom of the river. Her fingers twined around a strand of her hair instead.

"If I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop," Britt stated simply.

Her heart leaped in a rush of joy. "I don’t want you to stop." She slid her hands up to his shoulders, blazing a path of heat.

Britt groaned. "Catherine..."

"I love you." There. She said it even as a chill prickled along her spine. Voicing those words was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but the moment they were out she felt free--released from the constraints that had bound her to be cautious and sensible.

She stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. He shuddered and crushed her to him, sending the pit of her stomach into a wild swirl. She heard the ice pack sail over her head and land with a plop in the sink.

His mouth claimed hers, branding her with fiery possession. He seared a path down her neck with the blinding heat of a thunderbolt. On her bruised shoulder, his rain of kisses washed away the ache. A wave of pleasure chased away the pain and sent the black memories to the furthest recesses of her mind.

He pulled back and Catherine shivered. His fingers slipped beneath the lacy cup of her bra.

"You’re beautiful. Perfect. Every inch of you."

His smile beamed down on her and Catherine basked in it, feeling her insides turn to molten heat.

"My air bed?" He raised one brow wickedly. "It’s queen size."

Her voice abandoned her. She could only nod her assent. He took her hand and led her to the stairs. Breathless with anticipation and fear, she started to tremble. When she tripped on the first step, Britt caught her and swept her into his arms, carrying her up to his room.

He gently laid her down on the comforter. Beneath her, the airbed rocked, imitating the gentle rolling motion of the waves on the river.

His hand slipped under her and skimmed along her back. He sought out the fastening of her bra and deftly unhooked it. Easing the lacy cups aside, his palm, hot against her sensitive skin, sent a current of desire racing through her.

He was slow and thorough. He taunted her with kisses as he unzipped her jeans and slid them off. Tasting her, touching her. Exploring and discovering with his wet, hot tongue. He teased her in dark, secret places. Her senses reeled as a flood of passion washed over her. A fevered need throbbed inside her until she was all hunger and want. She writhed and pleaded, reaching out to touch him.

He undressed and some of Catherine’s boldness evaporated when she saw his full arousal. She shivered and drew the comforter about her, but Britt smiled slowly.

"You won’t be cold for long," he promised. He lay down beside her and drew her against him. She felt as if she had run into a wall of fire. He kissed her again, plunging his tongue deep into the recesses of her mouth until she responded with a wildness she didn’t know had been a part of her.

Her hands slid along the slick sheen on his back where the firm muscles tensed. She had only a moment to compare him with the young man who had caused her such pain and heartache in college. She realized now that the young man had sought only his own pleasure from her. He had given her nothing in return.

Her heart brimmed over with love for Britt. The touch of his heat on her thigh made her arch toward him. There was an emptiness only he could fill. An ache only he could soothe.

"Britt," she whimpered. "Please..."

He tortured her for another minute, poised above her, his gaze igniting every pore of her being. Then they joined. She clutched his hips, driving him deeper with every thrust. She moaned as the surge of a quickening tempo caught her and sent her emotions spiraling. She was lost. She was free. She flew over the water. She soared up like a sea gull towards the sun. Higher and higher until the sweet torment exploded into a thousand exquisite sensations.

Then, like a feather drifting down from the sky, she came back to earth. Britt shifted his weight and covered her with the comforter and his own warmth. A new and blessed peace settled on her. Blissfully, she drifted off to a safe haven where everything bloomed in sunlight that never dimmed.

Chapter Twenty

She loved him. And he loved her.

Damn. Britt paced in the kitchen in the gray light of the morning, eyeing the tools and ancient book on the table with a measure of fear and suspicion. Remembering the bizarre events of the night before set his teeth on edge. In the hazy dawn, all of it seemed more like a hallucination, as if he had a bad trip on some psychedelic drug.

He raked his hand through his hair. Catherine had prepared a cup of tea for him before he left to keep his appointment with Heddy. She hadn’t wanted him to leave her last night. She had done her best to convince him to stay.

He rubbed the swollen and painful knuckles on his right hand. The punch he had delivered to Drew’s jaw certainly felt and sounded real. The shirt he’d worn last night had bloodstains on it. Catherine lay naked on his bed, still marred with the bruises from her ordeal. And his loins throbbed with satiated soreness from their lovemaking.

God. It had been terrific. The best. Too good. She must have slipped something into that tea.

Grimly, he stared at the tools on the table. Clenching his teeth, he reached out to touch them. Nothing. No shock. He held the simple metal implements in his hand and a wave of guilt washed over him. Mike’s murder hadn’t been solved. If Catherine had laced his tea with a drug, Britt’s own conscience could have fabricated the illusion when he picked up the tools that Mike had given to him as a present.

He put the tools down and glared at the dusty tome. Taking a deep breath, he flipped it open at random. No monsters crawled out. No misty scenes appeared. He peered at the faded brown writing but he couldn’t make out the words. It must have come from another country. He’d taken Spanish in high school, so he knew it wasn’t that language.

Catherine had made him nervous about leaving her alone last night. So naturally, under the influence of a drug, he could have summoned up that small but frightening image when he looked at the book. He slammed the book shut, satisfied with his logic.

He spun around, ready to demand answers from Catherine when his gaze fell on the yellow note stuck to the refrigerator. Call for police report on Monday. He halted. He’d written the note. He’d been in the police station. Catherine’s bruises were real. He couldn’t dream up those cruel marks.

Damn. He balled up his fists. If he ever got his hands on Drew . . .

An unexpected knock at the door shook him. He saw Heddy standing on his back steps. He turned his mouth down in disgust. A visit from his ex-wife meant trouble. A surge of anger crept up his neck. Last night she didn’t have the time for him, as usual. Right now, he didn’t know if he could even attempt to be cordial.

"Good morning," he stated tersely as he opened the door.

"I know you’re upset with me." Heddy stepped into the kitchen. She had a way of advancing on the enemy that reminded Britt of a steamroller. "But when you read tomorrow’s edition of the Eagle..."

"I never read the Eagle." His words came out clipped.

"Bosh and feathers." Heddy waved her hand airily causing all her bracelets to jingle. "You read anything you can get your hands on. Just don’t miss it tomorrow. Then you’ll know exactly why I couldn’t possibly keep our appointment last night. It’s a long story."

Britt clamped his jaw tightly and felt the nerves twitch. "The Pulitzer’s in the mail?"

Her eyes narrowed. "One of these days, you’ll have to eat your words," she threatened.

Britt smiled. He’d pricked her Achilles’ heel. "Why are you here?"

Malice tinged her voice. "Could I be interrupting anything?"

Britt crossed his arms and stared at her, wondering how in the world he had ever been crazy enough to marry the woman. While she possessed an IQ that would impress Einstein, there was only one person that really mattered in her life--herself.

Catherine, however, cared about him. And he cared so much for her that it hurt. The thought that he might have lost her frightened him. His gaze returned to the book on the table. He rubbed his eyes. His head was spinning this morning. Any misgivings he had about Catherine slipped away. He wanted her in his arms again. God help him.

Britt’s failure to respond to Heddy’s question must have unnerved her slightly. He looked up as he heard her fumbling in her oversized handbag.

"Here." She handed him the copy of Mike’s cryptic last message. "Let’s get this out of the way. Mike Taylor was tediously monogamous by all accounts," she snapped. "It’s worthless."

Britt pressed his lips together in a grim line before he exploded. "Not one small indiscretion? He’s married to the Ice Queen and he doesn’t look around for someone with some blood in her veins?" He crumpled the paper and pitched it in the trashcan.

"Evelyn isn’t cold. She’s a Grayson who, unfortunately, married beneath herself," Heddy huffed, running a hand through her golden ringlets.

Britt gave a derisive snort. Heddy probably thought his blood just wasn’t blue enough for her standards, either. While he’d never adjusted to her circle of society, she’d made it quite clear that she couldn’t abide the company of his friends.

He raised one brow dangerously. He wasn’t done with Heddy yet. He suspected there might be more information. She always needed a little extra prodding.

"Sorry to disappoint you but I’m really surprised you couldn’t pull a story out of that little scrap of paper from a dead man," Britt scoffed.

Her cheeks flushed and Britt smiled for a second time. It didn’t take much to goad Heddy. She had a short fuse.

"I do have some principles," she fumed. "I was thinking of Evelyn. She’s suffered enough already."

"So you restrained yourself for once. How considerate." He put a ton of sarcasm into his voice. "It’s nice to know that you don’t intend to totally destroy everyone’s life just because you have some juicy tidbit to titillate the palate of the public."

"I inform the public!" she screeched as her face twisted with anger. "But you tricked me. You cheated me. You gave me a piece of garbage."

She gripped the table until her knuckles turned white.

"You’re hyperventilating," he noted with perverse pleasure.

She glared at him. "And to think I trusted you. I was so sure you’d given me something valuable, I even had one of Daddy’s associates look over it. He said the dates and times listed on that paper were nights when the moon was new. So Mike went floating around in total darkness. Who the hell is going to care?" She swung around, turning her back to him.

Britt felt an odd chill sweep over him. Total darkness. If Mike had something to hide, a night with no moon would provide excellent camouflage. In the midnight hours when most people slept, Mike could have cruised without running lights and his boat would have been practically invisible.

"I’m sorry you went through all that trouble. But who could know? I was sure it offered a hidden clue," Britt strove for a light tone. He didn’t want Heddy to think she might be on to something.

"It was a waste of my time." Heddy swung back to face him but instead of a scowl she now wore a satisfied smile. "So, of course, I don’t feel any inclination to reveal the results of my research into Miss Mullaney’s delicate condition."

Britt’s spirits sank as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "The epilepsy..."

Heddy crowed. "Is that what she told you? And you believed her, of course."

Feeling stricken, Britt watched as her gaze fell on the strange old volume on the table. She reached out to touch it. The hairs prickled along the back of Britt’s neck. He patted them down.

Heddy gently opened the book. She examined it thoroughly, running her fingers along the thick vellum pages.

"I can’t believe it. I’ve only seen one book like this before. I’d swear this is a grimoire--a witch’s book on spells. Where did you find it?" Heddy asked. "When you did the research for your articles on fake psychics?"

"Spells?" Britt croaked.

"Yeah. You know. Abracadabra. You’re a frog." Heddy snapped her fingers.

Britt raked his fingers through his hair. "Can you read it?"

"Hmmm. I thought they were supposed to be in Latin," she peered at the writing. Then a broad smile broke out on her face. She closed the cover and hefted the book in her arms. "Since you owe me for my time and trouble, why don’t I just take this and we’ll consider all debts paid."

Britt frowned. In the silence, he heard the creak of the oak floor in the living room. He set his mouth in a grim line. Catherine must be eavesdropping. Before he decided how he should handle the situation, Catherine stepped into sight. With her eyes wide and her mouth trembling, she looked terrified.

"You can’t have that book. It’s mine!" she cried. She stood framed in the doorway, wearing one of Britt’s best silk shirts which nearly reached her knees.

Britt saw a sly smile cross Heddy’s lips as she assessed Catherine’s appearance. His borrowed shirt slid off Catherine’s shoulder and dared to dip dangerously close to the tender swell of her breast.

Britt nervously cleared his throat. Catherine glanced down and quickly clutched at the slippery fabric to hold it tightly in place.

Heddy’s smirk broke into a low chuckle. "Well, Britt, I am surprised. Despite all the evidence you gathered to prove that psychics are all charlatans, you have taken up with a witch."

Catherine shook from head to toe as she stammered, "I-I am n-not a witch."

Struggling for control, Britt wanted only to gather Catherine in his arms but guilt weighed heavily on him. What had he done? Could he have made her ailment worse? The love he had shared with Catherine haunted him. It didn’t matter why it had been so good. He couldn’t imagine living without it from now on. His life had been so empty until Catherine had stepped into it. He went to a window that gave him a view of the channel and gripped the sill, momentarily closing his eyes.

"Leave the book, Heddy. I’ll talk to you later," he said quietly.

"Finders keepers," Heddy laughed. "But just so there aren’t any hard feelings, I’ll let you in on my research. Dear Catherine has something wrong with her blood. Pity."

"No!" Catherine’s agonized cry tore through Britt. He swung around as Heddy opened the door still carrying the book. Catherine raced toward Heddy, but before she reached her, Heddy screamed and dropped the book.

"A spider! It bit me!" Heddy wailed.

Catherine snatched up the book and hurried out of the room and back upstairs.

Britt lifted Heddy’s hand to examine it. "Where did it bite you? I don’t see any puncture marks. Did you see what kind it was?"

"Call 911," Heddy sobbed. "It was a black widow."

Britt’s heart constricted. He glanced around. He didn’t see a spider and a closer study of Heddy’s hand did not reveal the imprints of a spider’s fangs.

Heddy pulled away from him. "I’ll sue you both," she yelled, bolting out the door.

* * *

Catherine sat on the edge of the airbed rocking back and forth, the book still clutched tightly against her breast. Dark panic swept over her. What was this force that flowed through her? Catherine had simply pictured a spider in her mind. Then she imagined it on Heddy’s skin, sinking its venom into the greedy hand. Though the spider had not been real, Heddy had reacted as if it was.

Catherine bit back a sob. She couldn’t stay here any longer. Her frightening power needed to be harnessed and used for a good purpose, not for anything evil. She needed some time to herself. Time for studying whatever legacy Uncle Mike had saved for her. Time to try and discover if she could rescue Britt from his fate.

She heard him shuffle wearily up the steps. As his footsteps approached the bedroom, she struggled for calm. Then he was there, leaning against the doorjamb with his hands shoved into his pockets and his head down. When he lifted his head and gazed at her, she nearly dissolved. Love, pity, and fear mingled in his eyes with an intensity that stripped her nerves raw. He came and knelt down beside her.

"Tell me--the truth, this time," he asked.

Her throat tightened as she memorized the sight of him. His strong jaw, his soulful eyes, his classic nose, and the rich black hair blended into a handsome portrait. She longed to twist the unruly strands of his hair around her fingers. She couldn’t lose him. She would rather die.

"I’m not sure what the truth is," she whispered, nearly choking as she tried to hold back the tears.

"Start with the disease."

She watched him steel himself for the worst. She fought down a bubble of hysteria. She should have known all along. The truth had been there but she had dismissed it, blaming the results on inept doctors and sloppy medical labs. The proof had stared her in the face countless times. She couldn’t blame him if he didn’t believe her. She didn’t believe it herself.

"I don’t have AIDS, or any other disease transmitted through blood." She swallowed hard. "You’re safe." But he wasn’t, really. Bleak anguish clawed at her, but she would not allow herself to break down. Not yet.

"Then what is it? Hemophilia?" he reached out to her.

She scrambled away. If he touched her, if he held her again she would never have the courage to leave. She started picking up her scattered clothing.

"No, but it is genetic." Clutching the clothes and the book, she walked briskly out of the bedroom. "I need a few days off."

He followed her. "I’m sure Joshua won’t mind. I have some time coming. I could take care of you."

"I need to be alone." A lump rose in her throat. If she said one more word, she would cry. He stood at the top of the stairs while she raced down. She sensed his confusion and suffered his pain.

Slamming the bathroom door, she quickly turned on the shower. She released a pent-up flood of tears as the water streamed out from the faucet. Her spate of emotion soon fled, however, aided by the soothing warmth of the fine spray. With her composure restored, she searched her soul. The biggest hurdle she had to face would be to accept herself and her power.

The monotony of scrubbing her skin cleansed her psyche as well. A serene calm washed over her when she rinsed away the foamy bubbles and by the time she finished showering, she had worked out a plan.

Chapter Twenty-One

Catherine’s scheme went off without a hitch, except for the ache in her heart that wouldn’t go away. The hurt in Britt’s eyes kept haunting her. She knew it would have been hopeless to explain it all to him and besides, she didn’t have much time left. The anxiety twisted ever tighter inside her and she knew the danger for Britt was imminent.

Sam, the mechanic who had repaired her car, had a passion for aging automobiles and was delighted to buy Catherine’s classic Caprice. With the cash from the sale, everything else fell into place. She rented a furnished apartment, tiny but clean, and only one block from the Daily Press. Joshua loaned her a computer and graciously told her to take off as much time as she needed.

By four o’clock in the afternoon, Catherine had the computer all plugged in and ready to run the disk that her uncle had left for her. Her fingers shook as she shoved it into the slot. She wished she had her old cross around her neck. The talisman had always given her strength.

Seconds ticked by slowly as she waited for the computer to digest the information and display it on the screen. Her gaze fixed on the monitor, she sat rigid, afraid of what would be revealed--and even more afraid of what might not be there.

The text appeared. Catherine’s mouth went dry as her pulse quickened.

"I am Fiona, daughter of Fionnula and the fairy king, Fiachna. I have written down the use of herbs and the charms my mother taught me which she learned from the fairies. I have written this for my daughter and all the descendants of our line."

Catherine didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her uncle had always told her she had fairy blood in her, but it was too incredible to believe. Fairies. Those light, airy, and mystical creatures of so many Irish legends. She sighed. Well, to be part fairy was better than being part witch. She couldn’t see herself as an old hag with a black pointed hat stirring up a vat full of bat wings.

A shiver went through her. What sort of recipes did fairies use to weave their magic? What if she had to gather stardust instead of bat wings? And if she could find all the ingredients, would the spell be effective?

Grimly, she pressed her lips into a thin line. It had to work. She didn’t have an alternative. She started to race through the text, scrolling down rapidly, searching for the miracle that would keep Britt alive.

By chance, her gaze caught on the words, "dead hand." She stopped scrolling. A chill shot up her spine. The text described how the dead hand of a corpse could be used to cure diseases. While the charm was powerful, it could be lethal as well for those using it called upon the Evil One. Apparently, the dead hand most often wreaked havoc with people’s lives. The translation contained several long prayers and charms made from pungent herbs to use against the potent strength of the gruesome amputated body part.

Catherine’s heart thundered and a cold sweat drenched her. She felt suddenly vulnerable. She glanced around her small apartment. Nobody knew she was here except Britt and Joshua. She should be safe, yet a heaviness gathered in her chest, an oppressive feeling of doom warning her of danger. Looking up at the ceiling, she gasped. A dark cloud whirled menacingly above her.

Her hand went automatically to clutch the old Celtic cross, but it wasn’t there. Hurriedly, she mumbled a prayer and cast a wary glance back up at the ceiling. The cloud remained though it had stopped spinning. She studied it with morbid fascination and decided it did not appear as black as it had been.

Ice seeped into her bones. The gray mist overhead guaranteed peril awaited her. Her mind whirled with questions she hadn’t even dreamed of before this. Had Drew intended to use the burglar’s severed hands in an ancient rite? Was he in league with the Devil? She lifted her hands from the keyboard and gulped. Had he intended to cut off her hands and gain more power for himself?

Catherine scrolled back to the beginning of the text. She began reading again, slowly this time. She needed to learn it all. She needed to know how to protect herself from the forces of those who called upon the Evil One. With the threatening mist gathering strength above her, she concentrated on absorbing every word of the ancient record.

* * *

Rivershire’s police station had a magnificent old clock tower graced with a myriad of other architectural details that put Gull Haven’s squat, square police headquarters to shame. As Britt pulled open the heavy oak door, the scent of fresh brewed coffee rushed at him. He remembered the sour taste of the rancid coffee he had gulped down at the Gull Haven station the day of Mike’s death. Perhaps the foul potion served to Gull Haven’s officers could be responsible for their inefficient mode of operation.

Potion. Damn! He couldn’t get Catherine off his mind. He stopped and tried to knead some of the tension out of his neck. He had worked all day feeling hollow and empty. No matter how many cups of coffee he consumed at work the gnawing void would not go away. He had tasted paradise with Catherine and she had left him. He wanted her back. Even if she practiced witchcraft. Even if she carried a fatal genetic disease.

He sat down on a bench and leaned his head back against the cool wainscoting that lined the hall. Sorrow poured down on him. A witch! If he didn’t feel so much like a walking cadaver, he would laugh like a damned hyena.

He knew going home to work on the house wouldn’t help the emptiness. He would only think about Catherine more. She had spent such a short time in the house but her perfume lingered in every room. He couldn’t bear the bleak echoes that awaited him there.

He pushed himself off the bench. If it took every spare minute he had, he intended to solve Mike Taylor’s murder--on his own.

After Heddy’s enlightening statement, he realized now that his entire premise had been wrong. He should have worked from the assumption that Mike, his affable neighbor, was more devious than he appeared. Mike’s constant repetition of silly legends could have been a smokescreen, intended to make him appear harmless when in fact he practiced sordid rites as a warlock.

Britt shook his head. No. He could picture Evelyn as a witch, she’d fit the part, but not Mike.

Britt put a firm lid on his crazy speculation as he walked into the main office. The desk sergeant gave him a big smile. The sergeant’s son was one of the Down’s Syndrome children Britt had profiled in his series covering that topic. The sergeant dug out the police reports Britt requested for all the nights that Mike had written down on the small scrap of paper. It turned out that during the time of the new moon each month, Rivershire was plagued with a rash of burglaries--all unsolved so far. Naturally, all the houses broken into had easy access to the river. But the burglaries occurred within a short time frame on those nights. Mike couldn’t have operated by himself. He had to have help.

Britt thanked the desk sergeant and left the building. He decided to walk the four blocks to Al’s Pen and Ink Pub. The exercise should help. Hopefully, the pub wouldn't be busy. He needed to talk and Al ranked as the best listener in the county.

He glanced at the sky and a shiver went through him. Last night only a thin scrap of the moon had hung in the heavens. Tonight, nothing remained of that white sliver, though Britt couldn’t be sure since a building might be obscuring his view. Suddenly anxious to check, Britt cut through an alley that led down to the riverside. Away from the streetlights and the buildings, he scanned the sky overhead. Millions of stars twinkled against the black velvet of the universe with nothing to obscure their brilliance. The moon had vanished.

Who would be on the river tonight? What dark deeds would be committed in the shadows? Britt shook his head and trudged back up to the street to enter the Pen and Ink Pub.

He glanced around at the occupied tables. It was a slow night, only four couples sat in the booths along the wall. None of them were employees from the Press. A pang of grief shot through him when he looked over at the table he had shared with Catherine. Another couple sat there now, heads close together, laughing and smiling. Lovers, no doubt.

Britt turned away and saw Al wave at him from the bar. When he sat down on a barstool, Al frowned.

"Did you catch a cold in that storm yesterday?"

"No," Britt replied. "I worked late today."

"Sure." Al got out his steel shaker and reached for a bottle of hot sauce.

"I’m fine. Don’t bother mixing up your concoction for me, just give me a double of scotch," Britt asked.

Al poured in a generous amount of hot sauce and then sliced a lemon in half and squeezed the juice into the shaker. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"I don’t want to scare myself." Britt rubbed his temples. "But your unpatented medicine isn’t going to solve my problem."

Al kept adding ingredients to the shaker. "Nothing better for a bad case of lovesickness."

"Who said anything about love?" Britt growled.

"You don’t have to say it. I ain’t blind." Al shook the container a few times and then poured the contents through a strainer into a mug. Then he put the mug into the microwave. "You scared her half to death taking her out in a thunderstorm, didn’t you? And now she won’t give you the time of day."

Britt hung his head. While the thunderstorm hadn’t been the cause of Catherine’s departure, she had left behind a well of pain that he couldn’t deny.

"Tough luck," Al sighed. "When you walked in here with her I said to myself, ‘He’s got himself a real lady, this time.’" The timer on the microwave beeped and Al pulled out the steaming hot mug. He set it down in front of Britt.

"That old witch you were married to stopped by today."

Britt brought his head up sharply. "What was she doing?"

"Pestering everyone. Asked if anyone knew where Miss Mullaney had gone."

Grimly, Britt wrapped his hands around the hot china mug and stared into the steaming liquid. He could almost picture Catherine barely covered with his silk shirt, her eyes that haunting shade of misty blue, and her black hair tumbling down. He shook his head. Damned if she wasn’t half witch and half angel.

"Nobody could tell her, right?" Britt asked.

"A few thought she had some special project." Al picked up a cloth and wiped the top of the bar.

"Good." At least he didn’t have to worry about Catherine’s safety. Britt picked up the mug and gulped down some of the fiery drink. He grimaced as it seared a trail to his stomach. His eyes watered.

"I made it stronger than usual," Al commented.

"Hell yes!" Britt gasped and blew out a gust of air, expecting a tongue of flame to issue from his mouth.

"It opens the pores, you know."

"So the poisons can come out. I remember." Britt wiped his eyes with the cocktail napkin.

"You look like you’ve got some life in you now." Al grinned. Satisfied, he started whistling a tune as he got a dry towel to wipe the glasses in the dishwasher rack.

Britt shrugged. He did feel more alert. Maybe Al’s mixture did have some benefits. He sipped more of the high-octane elixir. His mind clicked into gear and an idea took hold. A dangerous idea. Still, it made sense.

"Hey, what time you closing up tonight?" he asked Al.

"Same as usual," Al mumbled quickly and then went back to his whistling. After a moment, the jolly tune died on his lips. "Wait a minute. I know you. You’re going to try and impress that little lady with one of your harebrained stunts. You just put it out of your head this minute. Roses and chocolates--I’ve told you a million times. It always works."

"It’s not a stunt. It’s a research expedition," Britt explained. "And I don’t intend to impress anyone. In fact, I don’t want anyone to know about it."

Al put down the towel and leaned over the bar. "Then it’s even worse than usual. Don’t do it--whatever it is."

Britt heard the command and shook his head. Evidently, Al had taken on the responsibility of surrogate parent. That could be a good thing tonight. Britt needed somebody he could trust, but it would take some smooth talking to get Al to see his point of view. He pulled out the photocopy of Mike’s note and spread it out on the bar. Then quietly he explained exactly what he had in mind for the evening.

* * *

Catherine turned off the computer and slumped back in the chair. It was hopeless. Nothing would work without that old Celtic cross which lay somewhere in the mud at the bottom of the river. Just as Uncle Mike had told her, some fairy gold had been mixed into the silver and without the unique properties of that rare metal, none of the spells and charms would have any power. She would lose Britt. And the danger for herself loomed very near as well.

She glanced up at the ceiling. The cloud above her had spread and small electrical charges sparked in the swirling mist. Malevolent spirits waited like vultures to gather up her energy when her soul flew from its earthly home.

Purely by accident, Catherine had performed a rite used by her predecessors to dedicate themselves to the use of their healing arts. The women in her family had been some of the "fairy doctors" of Irish history. Drew had initiated the process by tossing her blood-covered cross into the river. Evidently, by doing that, Catherine became something like a magnet, attracting the forces that still vibrated restlessly inside her. But without the talisman, those forces could not be focused and used effectively. Unless she simply wished to peek into the future.

Now that she owned the ancient book, it would be a much simpler task to go into a trance. According to Uncle Mike’s translation, all she needed to do was to concentrate on the twisting and intersecting lines tooled into the leather cover. The book rested beside the keyboard. Catherine touched it briefly and drew back. What good would it do her to learn of coming events when she could do nothing to change the outcome?

She clenched her teeth and glared at the book. She hated it. She hated this whole wretched mess. Grabbing the disk, she flipped open the book and jammed it deep inside. The hell with it. She directed her gaze at the cloud above her.

"Go away!" She picked up the book and threw it at the cloud. The dark mist scattered and the book fell with what sounded like a chorus of pained voices.

Go to the river.

Catherine froze as the words sang in her head. Those inner voices would always be with her and she never failed to listen to them. Trembling, she bent and lifted up the book. She gulped as she noticed the time on her watch.

"It’s midnight," she whispered softly.

The river. The command came again. Catherine went to the window and looked out onto the street. The other houses were dark. No headlights flashed, no motors roared, all lay in silence on this weekday night. But would she be safe?

"Okay," she whispered. "I’ll go." She grabbed her handbag and jacket. Clutching the musty book close to her breast, she stepped out into the night, closing the door quietly behind her.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The voices sang to Catherine as her heels echoed on the concrete sidewalk. Her pace, governed by the rapid rhythm of the music in her head, left her breathless. The lilting music had no words. Nevertheless, the sweet notes conveyed a building excitement that set Catherine’s nerves on edge.

Fearing to cut through an alley at this hour, she hurried to the park by the river. She shuddered as she passed a man sleeping on a bench wrapped in newspapers. Though he wore thick-soled shoes, a misty vision of his feet with gangrene rotting his toes swam through her mind.

Clamping a hand to her mouth, she knew she could not save him. She couldn’t save anybody, not even the man she loved. Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. But the caroling continued and Catherine, urged onward by the blended harmonies, came to the water’s edge.

She followed the shoreline until she heard the chorus reach a ringing crescendo. Held spellbound by the intricate symphony, she turned to look out over the water. The song faded away.

The voices had led her to this specific spot. But why? She glanced about in the darkness. Frowning, Catherine searched the sky for the moon but she didn’t see it. She realized then that she stood directly behind the Pen and Ink Pub. The dock, ten feet away from her, stretched out into the river. Two beams of light at the end of the wooden pier provided the only illumination in the gloom.

"Well. Now what?" she spoke to whatever spirits had guided her here.

No answer came. Catherine sighed and sank down in the soft sand at the edge of the water. The book in her arms had grown heavy in the mad rush to the river. The sand felt dry, so she lay the weighty volume beside her. In the dim light from the pier, she noted the tide had gone out. In fact, it looked headed for the lowest ebb judging from the line along the bank and the dark stains on the pilings.

Until last night, the lowest tide with a new moon left her free from the slightest chance of enduring a vision. However, tonight energy surged through her. Did she dare to use it? Why else would the voices have led her here?

With a resigned sigh, she picked up the book and placed it in her lap as she knelt. The waves lapping gently against the shore calmed her with their monotonous murmur. Swallowing a lump of fear, she stared down at the intersecting lines on the cover of the book. Running her finger along the path of those lines, she felt herself grow light-headed. She whispered the prayer her ancestors used for protection and then concentrated fully on the intricate paths of the Celtic design tooled into the book cover.

Her gaze blurred and a mist fogged her mind. She lifted her head to stare out over the river, but she found that the water now appeared crystal clear without any soil particles to turn it a muddy brown. She could see right through to the bottom of the riverbed. The water, acting like a powerful lens, magnified each tiny pebble. Way out, a long distance from the shore, a small green glow caught her attention.

Catherine’s heart twisted. She realized that the phosphorescent light came from her cross of fairy gold. It lay out there nestled deep in mud along with all her hopes for saving Britt. She reached out her arms in despair toward the small talisman but the sad futility of her "gift" had her pulling back her arms against her chest, feeling lost and alone.

But it seemed as though the cross had moved! Catherine blinked, unsure of whether she remained in a trance or not. Tentatively, she stretched out her arms once more and then drew them back again. The green glow inched toward her. She could feel the tug in her fingertips, as if some invisible cord stretched across the space between her and the magic amulet.

Her heart raced. Inch by inch, she dragged the Celtic cross toward her. Energy drained from her each time she jerked her hands to pull the precious metal closer. Within minutes, she wondered if she had the strength to go on. It felt as if all her power had been sucked into a fathomless pit, but she persisted because she had no other option. Finally, with her arms aching and her breathing labored, the cross came within reach.

She snatched it up triumphantly, kissing it and welcoming the strength that vibrated from the enchanted charm. Closing her eyes, exhaustion overwhelmed her and she collapsed on the white beach.

After what seemed only a moment, she felt someone shake her.

"Hey, are you all right?"

The voice jarred Catherine awake. Blinking, she glanced up at Susan, the pub’s waitress. Catherine scrambled to her feet.

"Yes, I’m fine. Really. I just--I couldn’t sleep," Catherine stammered. "Watching the water--it’s soothing. Too soothing, I guess. And it isn’t cold and. . ."

"You sure scared me. I thought something happened." Susan eyed her speculatively. "You shouldn’t be out here by yourself. We do have some nuts running around Rivershire."

Catherine gulped. If Susan had come a few minutes earlier, she would have accused Catherine of being one of those nuts.

"I haven’t seen a soul," she lied. "This is nothing like New York City."

Susan shook her head. "Don’t believe it. Bad things happen here, too."

Catherine knew that all too well.

Susan pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. "I’m on my break. I’ve got an hour to go. I came down here for a smoke."

Catherine watched the flame dance in Susan’s trembling hand and winced. The kind waitress really had gotten quite a shock finding her on the beach.

Susan drew in her breath and the end of the cigarette glowed red. She blew out a hazy cloud of smoke. "Britt spent a lot of time talking to Al tonight. Did you break up?"

Catherine felt a stab of pain with Susan’s words. She hadn’t wanted to leave Britt, but she had to do it. She couldn’t explain the situation to the waitress. "He doesn’t understand me," she muttered lamely. "We can’t get along."

Susan laughed. "I don’t always get along with my husband. What woman does? But Britt’s got a heart like a marshmallow. He is devastated. I hate to see him like that. Nothing’s so bad you can’t patch it up. Believe me, I know."

The cross grew hot with a pulsing urgency in Catherine’s hand. Anxiety squeezed her chest. Something was wrong.

"Is he still inside?" Catherine asked.

"Oh no." Susan shrugged. "He left about an hour ago. Al’s all upset because Britt told him to keep an eye out for him--told him he was going to cruise the river tonight and look for some hoodlums involved in a burglary ring."

Catherine felt the blood drain from her face. She swung around and stared out over the river, trying to contain her panic. The remembered vision of Britt cold and wet on a stone floor swam before her eyes and filled her with horror. Would she be too late!

Susan touched her shoulder and she almost jumped.

"Hey. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything," the waitress apologized.

Catherine squeezed the cross in her hand. A reserve of strength flowed into her.

"I really do love him." She couldn’t hide the pain in her voice.

"Britt probably didn’t say it to you, but one look at his face and you can tell he loves you, too."

Catherine simply nodded. She couldn’t give up--even now. She pressed the cross deep into her palm. Yarrow. Her inner voice called out. Her heart plummeted. She had grown up in New York City and didn’t know one herb from another.

"There’s an old lover’s legend about the herb, yarrow." Catherine tried to keep her voice light.

"The weed?" Susan questioned.

"Is it a weed?" Catherine’s laugh sounded false even to her own ears. "Well, if you put some yarrow into a small square of cloth and tuck it under your pillow, you are supposed to dream of your beloved."

Susan flicked her cigarette into the river. "Dreaming doesn’t do anyone much good. You gotta go after him."

That’s exactly what Catherine intended to do. But she needed the herb first. She steeled herself to tell a lie. "Yarrow is an aphrodisiac, too. Do you know where I can find some?"

"You’re beginning to sound like Al with his cure-all. Britt is crazy about you, honey. You don’t need any weed to help things along." She sighed and added, "I’ve got to get back. But if you really want to rip up some yarrow, there’s probably plenty in the park."

"Could you show me what it looks like?"

"Yeah, sure," Susan shrugged.

* * *

"Please go faster," Catherine urged the taxi driver as they drove along Rivershire Road toward Gull Haven.

"Hey lady, if you were having a baby I might take some chances, but I can’t risk any more points on my license. Okay?"

Frustrated, Catherine sank back against the seat and drummed out a rhythm on the cover of the old book in her lap. The cross hidden in the pocket of her jeans, pulsed wildly. She slid her hand into her pocket and drew out the ancient talisman. It glowed with its strange greenish light in her open palm.

Hurry.

"What’ve you got back there?" the driver questioned.

Catherine hesitated. She had read in the translation that the cross could be used to hypnotize people. Desperate, she decided to test it.

"Oh, just one of those glow-in-the-dark things. Look." She leaned over the seat and held it out for him to see. He glanced at it, his eyes widened and took on a glazed appearance.

Catherine frowned. More than anything, she felt foolish. How could she tell if the trance would work? She cleared her throat and spoke slowly.

"Now step on the accelerator and go ten miles an hour above the speed limit until we reach the house on Main Street." Immediately, the car shot forward. Thrown backward against the seat, Catherine stared in amazement at the cross in her hand. Fear crawled along her skin. She hadn’t really believed any of what she’d read in the translation. She trembled, now fully aware that this small object which had lain against her skin all her life had incredible power.

As they crossed over the bridge into Gull Haven, a blinding pain shot through Catherine’s head. She gasped and held her head in her hands. It had happened. Britt had been struck. The pulse of his life force now ebbed away slowly like a radio signal fading out into static. But where had he fallen?

The light from a street lamp cast deep shadows against the Taylor mansion and Britt’s quaint Victorian. Both houses stood dark and silent as the taxi pulled into the drive.

"Wait for me," Catherine instructed the taxi driver. As she stepped out of the car a sudden chill swept over her. The gloom of death hovered close by in the night.

Catherine glared at the murky sky. "I will not let you have him," she whispered fiercely. While her right hand held the cross, in her left she clutched the ancient text and a stalk of yarrow. The wild, pungent scent of the herb tingled in her nostrils.

In the glare of the taxi’s headlights, the finish on Britt’s electric blue car sparkled. Catherine felt herself drawn to the vehicle. She walked over and touched the hood with one fingertip. No warmth radiated through the metal, but the cross in her hand sped up its beat, reacting like a Geiger counter. As she slid her fingertip closer to the door of the car, the pulse of the cross went wild.

Catherine slipped the cross into her pocket and tried the door. It hadn’t been locked. She opened it and frowned at the sheath of papers lying on the driver’s seat. Picking up the papers, she put her heavy book down in their place.

She scanned through the police reports and noted Britt’s scrawled comments in the margins.

"Uncle Mike?" she muttered to herself. "No. It can’t be. He wouldn’t do that!" She tossed the papers angrily, scattering them all over the interior of the car.

I did it for you.

Catherine glanced up at the sound of the words and gasped. On one piling of the bulkhead, a hazy greenish glow swirled. Struck numb, Catherine stared, mesmerized by the twisting form.

Then she heard the taxi’s engine roar. She turned to see the vehicle pull out of the driveway.

"No! Wait!" Catherine called. She ran a few steps before stopping as she realized the hopelessness of the situation. The taxi driver must have seen the ghostly outline, too, and been terrorized by the sight.

She turned back to see if the shape still whirled by the bulkhead. It did, though it appeared to have slowed and the odd phosphorescent light had dimmed. Slowly, she approached it. A blanket of deep sorrow enveloped her as she reached out to touch the nebulous shadow. The cloud of fading energy was all that remained of Uncle Mike in this sphere. He couldn’t stay with her much longer. He had to go on to another dimension.

I wanted to keep you safe.

Catherine nodded. She understood. He had made the best of a bad situation.

You must only use your power for healing.

Catherine slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out the cross. It, too, glowed with that eerie gleam. She held it out in the palm of her hand. The light in the swirling mist grew brighter.

The Others cannot use the cross.

Catherine’s eyes filled with tears. "Did they kill you?"

The greenish gleam faded. The wooden piling seemed to siphon the foggy shape down into its pores. I should have taken you away sooner, but I had too many irons in the fire.

"Uncle Mike!" Catherine tried to grab the disappearing essence but it was too late. She dug into the rough wood of the piling with her fingernails. "Don’t leave me!"

The night pierced her with an unnatural chill. The black channel roared past her in the dark with a sound like a hoard of screaming demons. The evil of the others hovered nearby, eager to swallow her. Hatred vibrated on the air and she could smell death in the wind mingled with the salty brine. Catherine clutched the cross to her bosom and willed herself to remain calm.

She must find Britt.

Turning from the bulkhead, she slipped the cross into her pocket and stumbled back to the car. Reaching inside, she picked up the stalk of yarrow. Her fingers shook as she plucked off ten of the feathery leaves. Nine of the leaves she tucked deep down into her sock at the bottom of her right heel. Then she went back to the bulkhead and cast the tenth leaf over the water.

Before she dropped her arm a hard, cold object jabbed her in the ribs.

"We’ve been waiting for you."

Fear gripped her as she recognized Detective Jamison’s voice behind her. A shock waved raced through her as his thoughts tumbled into hers. He was one of the others.

Chapter Twenty-Three

With the gun, Jamison nudged her toward Aunt Evelyn’s house. When Catherine stumbled in the darkness, the detective prodded her with another painful jab in her ribs. Dizzy with terror, she could barely breathe. Glancing ahead in the night, she blinked her eyes. She saw a pall, like the curtain of doom, covering her aunt’s home, draping the dark, cedar shake siding.

Cold beads of sweat slid down her forehead. Though her mind could not reach beyond the terrible black veil, a yawning emptiness clawed at her. The funeral drape could only mean death. She had lost Britt. Forever. She wanted to scream, to rail at the fates for twisting her life toward such a cruel destiny.

"Hurry up," Jamison growled. When she tripped again, he snarled with obvious impatience and clamped his hand on her arm. He dragged her up the steps while thrusting the muzzle of the gun in her side. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

Then the warmth from the cross in her pocket shimmered out and steeled her against his vicious treatment. The small amulet sent out a slow, steady pulse, calming Catherine’s racing heart.

Jamison shoved her against the kitchen door. The door creaked open. Coming from the study across the hall, a dim light filtered into the room. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the shapes of two figures lying on the floor. Despite the deep shadows, the golden hair on each head caught the faint rays and sparkled like brassy tinsel.

"Aunt Evelyn and Drew . . ." Catherine whispered as she stared at the two prostrate forms. She sensed the utter stillness in them and knew that death had come quickly. Shock began to take over her senses. She couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. Horror clutched her throat.

"A case of misplaced loyalty," the detective sneered. "When the house burns down around them, their deaths will appear to be a tragic accident."

His use of the word "accident" snapped Catherine to attention. Righteous anger flooded through her.

"Somebody is going to notice that there are more than the usual number of accidents in Gull Haven."

"Then that astute individual will be the victim of an unfortunate mishap as well."

Jamison’s cold scorn sent shivers up and down Catherine’s spine. A grotesque, malicious smile spread across his face.

Catherine choked back a cry as she read it all in his eyes. He had killed them, and the inhuman act had given him pleasure.

"Move. We don’t have much time. Besides, there’s someone I’m sure you’d like to meet."

Anguish sent shards of ice into her heart. He had Britt! Desolation scattered her focus, making it impossible for her to probe the detective’s mind. She didn’t have a chance anyway. He propelled her forward, toward the study. Bewildered, she stumbled ahead.

Why the study? She had viewed Britt’s fate in her vision. He had lain on a stone floor in what appeared to be a cave, not a paneled room with a priceless Oriental rug.

As they entered the book-lined room, a briny smell rushed at her. The bookcase hiding the secret closet stood open. When they entered the space where Drew’s great grandfather had stored his illegal liquor, Catherine saw that another panel had been removed. Stairs led down from there. Catherine’s heart constricted. At the bottom of the stairs, in the glare of a bare bulb, she saw Britt lying still on a hard stone surface. She rushed down to him. Blood trickled from his mouth and a deep gash creased his forehead. But he was alive! She cradled his head in her lap and kissed him as tears streamed down her face.

"Pity. Didn’t you know that enchanting humans with your fairy charms could be dangerous, Catherine?"

She froze. It was not Jamison who questioned her. It was the voice that haunted her in countless nightmares. The voice she’d heard while hiding in the closet so many years ago. The voice of the man who had murdered her mother.

Her breath caught as she turned her head to face him. A tremor went through her as the memory assaulted her. His body had remained lean despite the passing years. Dressed in a black sweater and jeans, he could have passed for a much younger man. On his head, however, he wore a knitted cap and white hair peeked beneath the rolled edge. He slid the cap from his head. Catherine gasped. It wasn’t the absence of an ear that frightened her. It was the total lack of human love in the man’s heart. His soul reeked with evil.

"It’s amazing how much you resemble your mother," he commented. "Fiona had tremendous powers--a truly gifted woman. Your uncle promised us that, in time, you would be your mother’s equal, perhaps even surpass her."

"Who are you?" Catherine asked.

"Lobais," he replied.

"The Druid of the Formorians." Her voice came out a whisper.

A cold smile crossed his face. "Indeed. I see your uncle did pass on the old legends, as he promised." He shook his head. "We had such great hopes for you."

Catherine’s mouth went dry. Had such great hopes?

"Your father had been unrivaled in sorcery until your mother enchanted him. She caused him to forget all the ancient rites. He was lost to us and she would not let us near you, so we had to dispose of her. Your uncle claimed a child with such potential had to be handled properly or your powers would be compromised. Naturally, we were suspicious about him. Still, he demonstrated that he, too, had inherited amazing abilities and he used his skills for years to serve us well. But we never lost sight of the fact that he could have other loyalties, and we were right. He planned to break open our operation."

A muscle twitched in Britt’s neck. Catherine stroked his cheek. She had to get him out of here. She glanced around and noticed the frenetic activity going on all about her. The stone she sat on was part of a huge wharf. Boats, tied up along the wharf, were being loaded by a small army of men. The complex must have been a feat of unsurpassed engineering since it had been built in the sand. That it had remained a secret all these years indicated a broad conspiracy.

"Despite your future promise, we feel it would be dangerous to allow you to continue on. Undoubtedly you would betray us, as your uncle intended to do."

His words did not surprise her. Lobais was a monster, incapable of empathy. "You killed my uncle."

"It was necessary," Lobais shrugged. "We have survived for centuries. Nothing has been able to end our influence. Our organization is growing stronger. We are regaining what was lost. We will again be the equal of kings."

"My father told me he was a bard." Her voice, high and tight, sounded as though it came from another person. "Not a sorcerer or a Druid. He told me I was a bard, too."

A harsh laugh issued from deep within Lobais and a wave of despair washed over Catherine. She felt like that terrified two-year old in the closet, listening to her mother’s screams.

"Your mother cast a spell over your father. His success with his syndicated column shows just what a remarkable woman she was. Her magic lasted even after her death."

Catherine bowed her head and ran her fingers through Britt’s lush black hair to hide her trembling fingers. Horror coursed through every vein. She tried to recall the spells she’d read in the translation to ward off enemies but her mind drew a blank.

"Look at me, Catherine," he commanded. Gulping back her fear, she lifted her head. Lobais’ eyes, a strange tawny gold, glittered menacingly. Locking onto his gaze, she felt her strength draining away until she could not hold herself up. Moaning, she collapsed over Britt’s inert form. The warmth of the cross in her pocket shimmered through her, restoring her energy. Guarding her eyes with a quivering hand, she sat up.

Her heart pounded. Had Lobais hypnotized her? Or had he used the power of the Evil One? A shudder ran through her. Did Lobais practice witchcraft?

Lobais laughed. "I wondered if I could trick you and I can. How delightful. The daughter of the renowned Fiona is as gullible as an ordinary peasant without her magic amulet."

Shock raced through Catherine. So Lobais knew that Drew had removed the cross from her but he obviously could not detect the presence of the fairy talisman in her pocket.

"Your mother gave the amulet to you for protection. Otherwise, I could not have killed her. Without it, she was powerless--as you are now." He snapped his fingers and three burly men came up behind him. Catherine felt suffocated. They were the same three who had killed the burglar and chased her through the marsh.

She sought for a reserve of strength, hoping the spell she had performed with the yarrow for her own personal safety would protect her. She didn’t trust the cross alone to guard her from harm. After all, Drew had injured her easily enough. With sudden clarity, she realized that deep within all her uncle’s fascinating mythological tales there had always been a kernel of truth. Embedded in every fable he had spun the threads of her heritage. He had held her spellbound with his tales of shape shifters and those who could make themselves invisible. Accompanying each story, he recited a short verse, which he usually had Catherine repeat.

That was why the spells in the translation had seemed familiar, like old friends. She actually knew most of them already. Or at least, she hoped she did. The words had to be said in the correct order.

She slid her hand along Britt’s cheek. His skin felt cool to her quivering fingers. Could she protect him, too?

Lobais glanced at his watch. One of the men behind him held out a shriveled human hand. Lobais took it and began to stroke it. Catherine’s stomach lurched. He did use witchcraft and the most powerful kind, too.

"Your death must appear to be an accident, of course," he stated. He nodded his head and the three men came at her.

"No!" she screamed and clutched at Britt. One man yanked her from behind. Her hands slid away from Britt’s wet shirt. She kicked and fought but it did no good. The other two men hauled Britt up.

In desperation, Catherine called out, "Three things are of the Evil One--an evil eye; an evil tongue; an evil mind--"

All movement in the wharf ceased. The man behind her released her. She took in a deep breath and sang out in a ringing voice the remainder of the ancient incantation. Lowering her head at the finish, she noticed that her skin glowed with phosphorescent light. Startled, she covered her mouth to halt a cry of alarm.

She turned and noticed that everyone else in the wharf stared at her as if they’d been mesmerized. Even Lobais stood motionless with a scowl firmly fixed on his face. She stepped back, moving slowly toward the stairway that led up to the secret closet. Nobody stirred. Everyone waited and time seemed suspended. She realized she had the opportunity to escape, unharmed. Nobody would touch her. But she couldn’t leave without Britt. She rushed toward him unaware that Detective Jamison had taken up the guard over Britt’s crumpled form. When she saw the muzzle of Jamison’s gun pointed directly at Britt’s forehead, she skidded to a halt.

"You are proving to be a stronger adversary than I had anticipated, Catherine." Lobais’ voice held not a trace of emotion. It chilled Catherine to the core. "But if you move Mr. Jenkins, Jamison will shoot him."

Catherine swayed as her blood pooled in her feet. The light surrounding her dimmed, though it did not go out completely.

Lobais continued to stroke the shriveled hand. "Put Jenkins in his boat, men. If Catherine would like to join him, she may, however, I will not abide any more attempts to delay us further."

The men blinked as if they had recovered their senses. They hoisted Britt and carried him to his boat, which also sat tied up along the wharf. They dumped him carelessly into the small craft.

Catherine clenched her fists. She would not let them see her pain. She stepped into the boat to join Britt. Immediately, she knelt beside him to check for broken bones, though she didn’t detect any abnormalities, panic rose inside her. Anxiously, her trembling fingers sought for his pulse. Her fear mounted as she failed to locate the steady rhythm. Then she found it, but the beat was so feeble, she had difficulty counting out the pulses.

Lobais glared down at her. "We will tow you out into the ocean where we will leave you and your friend. Without drinking water, and exposed to the elements, you should expire quickly. It will appear that you became lost and wandered off course. The ocean is so vast and unforgiving."

Catherine met his glare defiantly. In a flash, she glimpsed his final end and felt a rush of satisfaction. Lobais stepped back, frowning.

"You will die in a hail of bullets," she prophesied. "And be buried in a pauper’s grave."

Lobais laughed. "Your own mother told me I would die sitting on a soft leather seat. My men have stolen priceless paintings, jewels, and silver which they are now loading into the boats. These goods will bring an incredible sum on the black market. Your uncle arranged for me to purchase an island. I will soon be enjoying my own tropical isle with enough money set aside to last me the rest of my life."

Catherine kept her tongue. He could very well be sitting in a comfortable chair when he met his end. No doubt, her mother had seen a small detail concerning the man’s death. Sometimes knowledge came in bits and pieces. Still, Catherine prayed that his death would mark the end of his wicked organization. The idea gave her a measure of comfort.

Lobais wandered off, overseeing the men who loaded the boats. He carried the grisly hand with him.

Catherine devoted her attention to Britt. The activity in the wharf went on around her but she closed Britt’s wound tightly with two fingers and recited the words her uncle had taught her, amazing herself at how smoothly the phrases fell from her lips.

She dug down in her sock and pulled out the yarrow leaves she had crushed beneath her heel. After applying them as a poultice to Britt’s wound, she lifted out the tarp from beneath the seat and tried to cover him tightly with it. Struggling with the unwieldy tarp frustrated her and she knew it wasn’t helping him. He grew colder with each passing minute. She twisted a strand of her hair into a tight knot as the little faith she had in herself evaporated.

Would all her ministrations be useless? Her visions had always been accurate. Everything had happened just as she had expected. Should she let Britt go? Could she?

Overwhelmed, a sob escaped her. She tried to stifle the sound by covering her mouth but her whole body shook. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She could crawl beneath the tarp to share her own body heat with him but what if it was already too late?

As she sat grieving, a sudden jerk knocked her off balance and she banged into the side of the boat. Blinking, she glanced around. The boat was moving. Someone had tethered Britt’s boat to another cruiser. Above the rumbling of the engine, she heard the high-pitched squeal of rusty hinges. Looking ahead, she saw the wall move.

Catherine cried out as all the lights went dark. None of the boats had turned on their running lights. Britt’s boat rocked and swayed as it slid forward. Gradually, her eyes adjusted. She couldn’t see much, but what she did see made fresh shivers race along her spine. Streetlights on the opposite side of the channel twinkled in the dark. Awed, she realized that what simply appeared to be an ordinary bulkhead in the back of Aunt Evelyn’s house was really a hidden door allowing access to the channel.

"Get down," somebody called out.

As she glided through the opening, Catherine noted how little clearance there was. Only a skiff, or small motorboat such as Britt’s could slip underneath and only at the lowest tide. Her uncle had recorded the times of the lowest tides on his list for the use of the secret opening. The rusty hinges squealed and Catherine gritted her teeth at the sound. The door was closing again. She and Britt floated along, last in the line.

Catherine wiped the tears from her face. She reached into her pocket for the cross. It still glowed slightly and gave off enough warmth to settle her trembling fingers. She frowned at it, recalling how the small amulet had burned Drew’s hand. Perhaps, she could use it to warm up Britt.

As she placed it over Britt’s heart, she thought how she would love him forever, in this life and in any that were to come. A tremor went through her as she recalled the words of a powerful charm, one that was strictly forbidden except in desperate cases, since it irrevocably changed the set patterns in the universe. Catherine closed her eyes. It was considered an evil charm because it eliminated the recipient’s free will.

A sob tore through her as her despair shattered all hope. From the depths of her soul, the words of the sinful love charm formed on her lips. She touched Britt’s forehead with the cross, then each side of his chest, and last, the soles of his feet. The glow from the talisman grew. Catherine felt the warmth flood through her. Her skin tingled as it gleamed with the strange phosphorescent light. She lay down beside Britt and drew the tarp about them.

She clung to him and cried. She kissed him, remembering the first time she’d tried to protect him with her kiss. But it hadn’t saved him! Pain twisted inside her. How surprised she’d been at the special magic that sparked between them. If only he had understood--if only he had believed her.

"I love you, Britt," she whispered.

The water seemed to murmur to Catherine as it lapped against the sides of the boat. Escape and run! The words echoed over and over with the slapping waves on the hull. The glow on her skin faded away, she felt drained of all her energy. Still, the voices grew stronger.

The motion of the boat became violent. The turbulence indicated that the tide was rushing back into the channel. The roar of the flotilla’s engines had increased as they tried to make some headway against the rising water.

The image of a knife flashed before Catherine’s eyes. She sat up. Among the many articles Britt tucked away under the seat, she remembered the old jackknife. She lifted up the cushion and fumbled around in the dark. Locating the well-worn jackknife by its smooth handle, she clutched it and sighed.

Did she dare to try and cut the rope tethered to Britt’s boat? What did she have to lose? Lobais and his men intended for her and Britt to die. Even if she could fend off Lobais’ men with the power of her special amulet, the evil borne by the dead hand had the strength to destroy her. Her ancestors feared the charm more than anything else.

She opened up the blade and crept to the front of the boat. She couldn’t stop shaking. Gliding her hand along the bow, she found the ring with the heavy nylon rope twisted through it.

The choppy water made it nearly impossible for Catherine to slice through the rope. The boat pitched and rolled. Sprayed with the briny water, she worked feverishly, trying to keep the blade digging into the same section of rope.

A sudden heavy thump startled her. Had Britt moved? Or had the ceaseless sway of the boat thrown him into another position? The knife slipped from her quaking fingers. Her heart nearly stopped. She slid her hand around in the dark until her fingers closed upon the handle of the knife which had fallen next to her knee.

Sighing with relief, she glanced up and noticed a lighted buoy in the distance. They had come to the end of the channel and would soon be out in the open water. She had to cut them loose now. She didn’t have time to check on Britt. Gulping back a lump of fear, she sawed away at the rope with renewed fervor.

With a loud twang, the line snapped. Catherine held her breath, wondering if the driver of the boat towing them would notice. She listened and heard only the rumble of the other boats’ engines fading away in the distance as Britt’s boat drifted swiftly back into the channel with the incoming tide.

Catherine scurried around Britt’s silent form to the back of the boat and braced herself to start the engine. She tugged at the pullcord. The motor didn’t catch. She grabbed the cord with both hands and gave a mighty yank. It sputtered and died.

The choke! Her inner voice reminded her.

Catherine covered her eyes and sobbed. "I forgot."

Hurry! The voice commanded.

"Okay." Catherine quelled another sob and opened the choke. Then she tugged at the cord with such force that she fell backward, landing on the cushioned bench. The motor idled at a gentle roar. Catherine didn’t think any other sound had ever pleased her more.

Suddenly, a bright light sliced through the darkness, rolling over the waves. The beam skidded past Britt’s boat but quickly returned and locked onto their location.

Catherine froze. They knew. And they were coming after her! She dashed to the wheel and shoved the throttle forward. The propellers whirled madly, churning up a mass of foam. The bow of the boat tilted up at a frightening angle. As Catherine clung to the wheel a row of holes blasted through the Plexiglas windshield. Bullet holes!

Britt’s boat leveled off as the bow went down. Catherine kept the throttle on full and went plowing through the water, flying off the tops of the waves and landing with a bone-jarring whack in the troughs. More lights focused on the boat. More shots went whizzing by, chipping off parts of the fiberglass hull and ricocheting off the chrome.

If they hit the gas tank, she would be swallowed up by a wall of flame, just like Uncle Mike. Anger filled her with heat. She had to get away. She had to let everyone know about the horrible deeds of Lobais and his men. They must be punished. Surely someone would be alerted by the sound of gunfire.

Red, right, return. Her inner voice called out as the channel markers appeared. Catherine obeyed and headed up the river.

When a deafening explosion rent the air, she panicked. She jumped out of the seat, prepared to dive into the water rather than have scorching flames devour her flesh, but there were no flames in the boat.

Puzzled, she sat down and grabbed hold of the wheel again. It didn’t take her long to spot the source of the cataclysm. The glow in the sky around the bend in the channel wasn’t the first rays of the dawn. Aunt Evelyn’s house was completely engulfed in a mass of orange fire.

A high whine singed the air by Catherine’s ear. Almost immediately, she found herself slammed into the wheel by the force of another bullet. Searing pain bit into the flesh of her shoulder. Horrified, she noticed the dark stain growing on her jacket.

The boat slammed off another wave crest and Catherine gasped in a spasm of agony. A wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed her. She couldn’t let them win! They couldn’t continue on with their vicious killings.

Tears blurred her vision. She blinked to try and clear her sight. If she could just slow down, it wouldn’t hurt so much. She wanted to pull back on the throttle but she found she couldn’t move her arm. Stunned, she stared at her useless limb. Glancing up again, she screamed. Dead ahead, she saw the massive pillars of the bridge.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Catherine palmed the wheel to the right using her left hand while her right shoulder felt as if a hot knife had been driven into it with a sledgehammer. Gritting her teeth against the excruciating fire slicing through her flesh, she concentrated on swinging the wheel back to straighten out the boat. Cold beads of sweat trickled into her eyes. A wave of the onrushing tide lifted the boat, carrying it toward the solid concrete. With her last ounce of strength, she fought against the force of the water and missed the pillar by inches as she sped through the sweeping arch. Her breathing almost stopped as she heard the sickening crunch of the stern scraping the corner of the bridge until another wave barreled through the opening and pushed the boat safely out into the open river.

Leaning heavily on the wheel, she saw a myriad of brilliant flashing lights in the distance. Screaming sirens echoed her pain. She headed toward the pulsing rays as agony clawed at her and warm blood drained from her wound. The boat raced forward, but she couldn’t hold on anymore. The wail of the sirens and the roar of the engine faded to a distant hum. She felt herself slipping away as shock settled down on her, numbing the piercing misery. Her good hand fell limply at her side.

The glow of the beacons in the distance dimmed. She had lost.

"No," she moaned. The small cross in her pocket sent a shimmer of warmth coursing through her, reminding her that she hadn’t lost everything. She would see Britt again, in some other time, some other life. Still, the shadow of doubt plagued her. What if the charm didn’t work? What if she never could hold him again? Never even see him again? Ever?

She sobbed softly. Their time together had passed too quickly. She wanted to offer one more prayer but a creeping lethargy enveloped her. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t see. Her eyes closed.

"Catherine? What the hell . . .?"

Britt? She felt his touch as a world of darkness swallowed her up.

* * *

Britt strolled into the Pen and Ink Pub Saturday morning as soon as Al unlocked the door. Sunlight glinted off the sparkling brass rails around the bar and hurt his eyes. He squinted as he glanced about the pub. He was the first customer of the day. Al set out bowls of peanuts while Britt sat down on a stool at the bar.

"Just a cup of coffee right now, Al," he said.

"First, I’ve got something you’ve got to try." Al spun around and disappeared into the kitchen.

"No concoctions, Al. I mean it," Britt called after him.

Al came back smiling and carrying a steaming bowl of soup which he set under Britt’s nose.

"Eat it--it’s on the house," Al insisted.

Britt knew from Al’s tone of voice that it would be useless to argue with him, but he did anyway.

"Chicken soup is supposed to be good for a cold. I don’t have a cold," Britt stated as he shoved the bowl away.

"You’ll get one if you don’t take care of yourself. Besides, this is no ordinary chicken soup." Al raised one eyebrow and pushed the bowl back. "Come on, I want to know what you think of it before I add it to the menu."

"So now I’m a guinea pig," Britt grumbled.

"I trust your opinion," Al pointed out.

Britt sniffed in a wisp of the steam curling up under his nostrils. Picking up the spoon, he stirred the golden broth. "It smells good," he stated noncommittally.

"It ought to," Al nodded.

Britt frowned as he stared down at a spoonful of broth.

"Cayenne pepper?"

"Just a dash--for medicinal purposes," Al conceded.

Britt shook his head. His stomach started rumbling. He tried to remember when he had eaten last. The past twenty-four hours had been a blur. He lifted up the spoon and sampled the hot broth. It slid down easily and Britt realized he was starving. Eagerly, he scooped up more of the soup.

"With Jamison part of that burglary ring, I’m sure glad I called the state police," Al commented as he wiped glasses and stacked them on a rack.

A pain squeezed at Britt’s heart. Like the worst of nightmares, the whole scene came crashing down on him. For a moment he was back in the boat, groggy, but catching Catherine as she tumbled into his arms, pulling back on the throttle and then feeling the warm blood. He gripped the spoon tighter in his hand and fought to shake off the horror. He took in a deep breath and plunged the spoon back into the bowl.

"You said the ringleader pulled out an AK 47?" Al asked.

"Yes. And it turns out he’d been wanted by the FBI for years." Britt shuddered. He could see the madman all over again, silhouetted in the floodlights aiming straight at him and Catherine.

He couldn’t taste the soup but he ladled up another spoonful automatically.

"Hmph. Nobody’s going to shed a tear for that maniac. Good thing the troopers are crack shots." The pride in Al’s voice was understandable. His nephew was a trooper and though Al’s nephew hadn’t been part of the operation, he held everyone who wore the uniform in his highest regard. Britt had never really appreciated the state troopers until now. They had put their lives on the line to save him and Catherine.

Sorrow washed over Britt at the thought of Catherine lying still as death in the hospital. He put his spoon down.

"Well? Too much garlic? Not enough noodles?" Al stared at the bowl with a worried expression.

"It’s fine. Great, in fact. I’ve never tasted better," Britt declared as he tried to smile. "But I thought I’d go over to the hospital and check on Catherine."

Al took the bowl. "You know, I had a cousin once who got hurt real bad in a car accident. He lay in a coma for two weeks, but he came out fine. Had to go through physical therapy for a while, of course. He lives in Florida now. Sends me oranges and grapefruit every February."

"But she shouldn’t be in a coma," Britt felt the anger rising. "The doctors told me they fixed her arm up real good. They say these things happen. But they can’t even type her blood. They don’t know what’s wrong!" He slammed his fist on the bar.

Al set a shot glass down in front of Britt and poured in whiskey.

Britt drummed the bar with his fingers. "I asked for coffee."

"You need this." Al shoved the glass at him. "And it’s on the house, too."

Britt grabbed the glass and downed it in one gulp. The heat burned all the way down. He coughed and wiped his mouth with the cocktail napkin.

"Hey, Al. What do you know about fairies?" he asked.

"Fairies?" Al chuckled. "What kind?" he laughed harder. "Are we talking about the Tooth Fairy?"

"No." Britt rubbed his unshaven chin and blundered on, feeling damned foolish. "Irish fairies. Aren’t you part Irish?"

"Yeah," Al admitted, after another snicker. "I’ve got a bit of Irish blood in me. My grandmother told us kids stories about fairies in her sweet Irish lilt. But she used her fairy stories to keep us in line. Her fairies were nasty. They went around stealing babies and that sort of thing."

"Stealing babies?" Britt leaned over the bar, his heart pounding as Al rattled on.

"Yep. My grandmother claimed the fairies would take a pretty child and leave an ugly, sickly, or weak child in its place," Al explained. "When we misbehaved, Grandma would put her hand over her heart and wonder aloud if we weren’t a pack of changelings or whether we’d all been fairy struck."

"Right." Britt lowered his head. It all sounded like nonsense--myths invented to ease people’s consciences. They didn’t know about genetics or birth defects in those days. They didn’t have to blame themselves for their children’s flaws. They blamed the wee folk.

"I’ll have that coffee now. Please," Britt asked.

"Oh. Sure." Al hurried over to the huge coffee urn at the end of the bar.

Britt dug in his pocket for a sheet of paper. He smoothed it out on the bar. He had found Catherine’s ancient book with the disk inside it on the seat of his scorched car. That the book and disk had survived the fiery blast from Evelyn’s house was a miracle. At first, when he ran the disk in a computer and read the fantastic story it contained, he’d been angry. No wonder Catherine had behaved so irrationally. She’d been brought up with all of the preposterous legends and she believed in them.

Britt tapped the paper. He remembered reporting on a study outlined in the Journal of the American Medical Association suggesting that prayer measurably influenced a patient’s recuperation time. One’s beliefs strongly aided recovery in many illnesses. He couldn’t recall the exact percentages but it didn’t matter. It had been a scientific study completed with a proper control group.

"Here’s your coffee." Al placed the cup and saucer down in front of Britt. "What’s that?"

"Just something I ran off this morning--sort of a prayer, I guess. I hoped it might help." Britt folded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the warm metal of Catherine’s Celtic cross which he had shoved to the bottom of his pocket. An odd tingle raced from the tips of his fingers, straight up his arm and right to his heart.

Al nodded and picked up his towel to start stacking the glasses again. "How’s the house?"

"Actually, only the side facing the explosion got torched. If the smell ever goes away, the rest of the house should be fine." Britt shrugged. "Since the insurance will cover it, I’ll hire somebody to put on new siding."

A door slammed and Britt turned to see Susan bustling in the back entrance, tying on her apron as she came toward Britt. She flung her arms around him.

"I’m so sorry. It’s just awful. Why, the last thing Catherine said to me was how much she loved you."

A pain went through Britt. Damn. He knew Catherine loved him. She’d told him so. He loved her, too, but a stabbing ache twisted through his heart as he realized that he’d never repeated the words to her. And he might not get the chance to do so now.

He couldn’t say anything. He held in his agony. Susan seemed to understand, she gave him another squeeze and scooted behind the bar to join Al in stacking the glasses.

"They say that people in a coma can still hear. Talk to Catherine when you visit her in the hospital. Tell her the important stuff--like those three words--I love you. A woman’s gotta hear that, over and over." Susan sighed briefly as she and Al stacked the last of the glasses in place. Then she dashed off to start setting the tables with the napkins and utensils.

Britt drank his coffee slowly. Would Catherine hear him if he said those magic words? Would it help?

"Susan’s taking courses at the community college at night," Al spoke softly. "Says she wants to be a psychologist. But she’s a damn good waitress."

Britt glanced at Susan again. Maybe she was a good waitress because she already was a good psychologist, she just needed a license. Britt left the money for the coffee on the bar and hurried off to the hospital.

* * *

Catherine sat alone in the Sifra, the fairy-house. All around her the sweet music played and the fairies with their long golden hair danced. The glitter of the diamonds that lit the banquet hall hurt her eyes. She stared at her feet tapping restlessly on the golden floor. She could feel the warmth of the fairy chief’s eyes studying her. With the circlet of gold around his head, she knew he ranked supreme in the hierarchy. Though his face nearly dazzled her as much as the diamonds in the silver walls, she longed only to see Britt’s face once more.

She’d been offered the fairy wine and fairy food, but she’d been careful not to touch any of it. She wanted to go home. Uncle Mike had told her many tales of mortals who had escaped from the fairies using trickery. She needed to keep her wiles about her. If she could learn the fairy language, and most importantly the password they used to open the door to the outside world, she might escape the relentless light and laughter of the fairy palace.

The fairies were kind, of course. They’d given her a crash course in the recognition and uses of herbs, since she’d been notably deficient in that skill. Some fairies recalled the beautiful Fionnula, Catherine’s ancestor, who had captured the heart of the fairy king, Fiachna. They entertained her with stories of Fionnula’s time in the fairy realm. Catherine knew she should smile and show her appreciation, but she couldn’t. Her heart felt heavy in her chest.

Suddenly, the music stopped. Catherine looked up and saw the fairies gathering around the handsome chief. He walked up to her and extended his hand.

"You will be my wife," he smiled and his face outdid the sun in splendor.

Catherine felt nothing but grief in her heart. She did not love him. She could never love him. Her soul belonged eternally to Britt and she would never be happy until she rested beside him. No matter how magnificent the fairy chief’s palace, the Otherworld resembled a prison to her. But one did not turn down a fairy chief.

She whirled and ran. A great cry rose up in the Sifra and a hoard of fairies chased her through the halls of the sparkling palace. She wound her way through twisting corridors and past more jewel-bedecked rooms than she could ever have imagined. The lost treasures of the world spilled out of every nook and cranny in the fairy realm. Catherine simply kicked all of them out of her way. She wanted none of their riches.

The fairies kept at her heels, snatching at her long hair whenever they came close enough. She yanked it away from them and surged ahead. She knew she couldn’t go on much further. When she turned a corner and saw a dark tunnel, she pressed toward it. With a final burst of speed she reached the shadowed passageway and ran blindly into it.

Suddenly, she found herself falling and with an agonized moan she realized she had leaped into the misery of the black abyss. She shut her eyes as she spun out of control. Banshee-like howls echoed all around her. Would this be her final destiny? Would she spend eternity in the endless void? She wailed in her anguish. She’d escaped marriage to the fairy chief only to be tossed around like cosmic dust in limitless empty space.

She drifted for a long time. Floating, whirling, flying through the desolate void with no way out. The fates that controlled the vast dark realm had surely forgotten her. The loneliness froze her into a rigid statue. Bit by bit, she lost all hope.

At first, she barely heard the voice calling out the ancient incantation used for healing. It sounded as a distant rumble. But then Catherine stopped spinning and felt a powerful force begin to draw her in a single direction. She dared to open her eyes and search the infinite darkness. A beam of greenish light shot through the blank sea of nothing and bathed her in warmth.

Again, she heard the incantation. Louder this time, the words echoed through the dark chasm. She felt as if she was rising to the surface from the depths of the ocean. Soon, very soon, she would be able to take a breath. The light grew brighter until it flooded her with blazing splendor.

"Catherine, please. I love you."

She recognized Britt’s anguished voice calling to her.

"Can you hear me, Catherine. I love you. Please wake up."

Joy poured into Catherine. She burst from the horror of the abyss into the world of the living.

Noise bombarded and confused her for several minutes while she tried to figure out exactly where she was. Bells rang. A nasal voice blasted through a speaker mumbling some garbled message.

She blinked her eyes and tried to focus. An IV bottle hung above her and tubes dangled down. Oh no! She lay on a bed in a hospital. She hated hospitals!

She struggled to move and realized her shoulder still hurt, though not as much as when the bullet had first struck. She concentrated on trying to move her arm but realized she’d been strapped into some sort of torturous contraption. Her good arm had been rigged up with the IV and strapped onto a board and she couldn’t use that arm either.

She tried to protest but her mouth didn’t have a single speck of moisture in it. And where was Britt? She’d heard him calling to her. She cast her gaze about, searching the room. Tears filled her eyes. Had she come all this way for nothing? She didn’t regret leaving the beautiful land of the fairies. But to return to this pain-filled world and not have a glimpse of Britt one more time would be more than she could bear.

She took in a ragged sigh.

"Catherine!" Britt shouted.

Catherine smiled up at him. Despite the stitched-together gash on his forehead and a few days growth of beard on his face, the sight of him filled her with happiness. He was alive and well. She had saved him.

"You’re awake." His voice held a note of awe in it and Catherine frowned. He raked his hand through his unkempt hair. "It worked. I can’t believe it really worked. Oh, God, Catherine, I thought it was hopeless. I thought I’d lost you forever."

Her heart turned as he let out a shuddering groan.

"I couldn’t let you go without letting you know I loved you." He bent down to kiss her, his tears mingling with her own.

"I heard you. You called me back." She struggled to mouth the words.

"You saved my life." He dabbed at her tears with a tissue and hastily wiped his own away. "But you almost got yourself killed and I’m not going to put up with that sort of thing anymore when you’re my wife."

"Wife?" Catherine squeaked.

He nodded his head. The deep well of tenderness in his eyes warmed her.

"I’ll ask for your hand, formally, on my knees and give you a ring when you’re feeling better and we can have a wild bash, but before you become a celebrity, I want to warn you that you are already taken," he smiled, then added with his voice cracking from emotion, "And to think I owe my happiness to this."

He held up the Celtic cross. Shock and grief flooded through Catherine as she remembered the powerful love charm she had recited in a last ditch effort see Britt again. He couldn’t know what she had done. He’d been unconscious. But the love charm had worked its magic far too well. He now thought he loved her.

"No," she whispered and turned her head away. "I can’t marry you."

* * *

Britt might never have read Friday’s edition of the Eagle if Al hadn’t saved it for him and stuck it under his nose when he stopped in for supper, Saturday night.

"Your ex found herself the perfect husband. He’s CEO of a chain of upscale department stores," Al laughed. "He’s about thirty years older than she is. He’s got grown children her age."

Britt gave a cursory glance to Heddy’s photo in the engagement notice. Heddy looked as contented as a pig about to wallow in the mud. Beneath the photo, the copy detailed a splendid engagement party held on Wednesday night at the very exclusive Rustling Oaks Country Club. So that was why she didn’t keep her appointment with Britt that night. Why couldn’t she simply have called?

Still, reading the notice gave him an idea. He was having one hell of a time convincing Catherine that he really did love her before she performed her special love rite on him. Unfortunately, she didn’t believe him. However, once he made up his mind, he never wavered in reaching the goal he sought.

He explained to her that he’d read through the translation of her ancestor’s book and run off a copy for himself. He warned her that he would know if she attempted to undo her love charm. He’d even told her he didn’t care if she wanted to set up shop and heal people with her magic. He simply wanted her--and if all the fairy business came as part and parcel of the deal, he didn’t mind one bit. After all, maybe some hocus-pocus was a good thing.

He smiled to himself. Abracadabra and a little flimflam. Perhaps, with some clever sleight of hand, he could win Catherine over. He would use a heaping dose of journalistic sorcery. A newspaper could have a lot of magic in it, if he could stack the deck in his favor.

* * *

Monday morning, while yet another nurse drew blood, Catherine decided on her escape from the hospital. The doctors were having difficulty typing her blood, of course. She could read their thoughts. They eyed her as a wonderful, rare specimen, something new and different--a fascinating puzzle they wanted to try and piece together.

Catherine had no intention of waiting around while they bled her dry and put her under a microscope. She wanted out, no matter what it took--even if she had to hypnotize the entire staff to do it. She fingered the Celtic cross that dangled from a brand new chain around her neck. It felt warm and familiar there. Britt had brought the chain. He was bending over backward to be nice to her and he was driving her crazy.

Every time she saw him, guilt ate at her. Inadvertently, she’d turned him into a hopeless romantic. While a part of her enjoyed his gallant behavior, she realized what a terrible charm she’d used. She had selfishly worked to change Britt’s destiny forever. She tried to assuage her conscience by reminding herself that she had believed he would certainly die. She had no idea he would live.

Well, there must be some way to fix up the situation. She’d study the translation more thoroughly. She began to dress but found it next to impossible with one arm in a cast. Gritting her teeth, she realized that escaping wasn’t going to be that easy.

When Catherine heard Susan announce her arrival on the other side of the curtain, her heart lifted. She drew back the curtain. "Hi. I need some help. I’ve got to get out of here."

Susan gave her a big hug. "Congratulations! I knew you were just the right one the first time I saw you."

Catherine’s mouth dropped open at the very strong and very wrong ideas she read in Susan’s mind.

"I am not engaged to Britt," Catherine protested.

"Pardon me--affianced, isn’t that the fancy term." Susan opened the morning edition of the Daily Press to the wedding and engagement columns in the second section. "It’s a lovely photo of you. I know Britt will probably bring you several copies but I thought another one wouldn’t hurt."

Catherine stared at the engagement notice. The photo had been one of her rejected proofs from her first day on the job. Britt must have snitched it. She read the copy and heat burned on her cheeks. A September wedding! Says who?

It took a great deal of effort for her to remain calm as Susan helped her to dress.

"I know the best place to buy a dress, right here in Rivershire," Susan chatted on, making plans for Catherine’s wedding. Catherine simply nodded. She’d get her revenge for this absurd trick.

As Susan combed her hair, Britt sauntered in the room, carrying a stack of newspapers under his arm.

"Hello, my love." He dropped the papers on the tray. "Hi, Susan. Thanks for stopping in to help Catherine get ready."

The syrupy sweetness in Britt’s tone only made Catherine’s cheeks flame.

Susan tucked a fancy clip in Catherine’s hair. "Britt, just look at her. She’s positively glowing. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone." She winked and walked out of the room.

"Did you read the morning edition?" Britt asked pleasantly.

"Only the one page that mattered," Catherine stated between clenched teeth. "And that is the nastiest, most underhanded, most despicable trick I have ever seen in the entire history of journalism."

"So now we’re even," Britt grinned. "You tricked me into loving you and I tricked you into marrying me. Clever isn’t it?"

"It’s not the same thing! You’ve committed a crime. This is libel! I could sue you for everything you’re worth!" she threatened.

"It would take an awful lot of time and money." Britt slid his hand around her waist and her insides melted. "Our time and money could be spent on much more worthwhile pursuits."

He kissed her soundly and crumbled all the barriers she had talked herself into. He left her weak with desire, unable to resist his assault. It seemed impossible to defy him while he held her in his embrace.

"Whose idea was the September wedding?" she asked, her voice sounding a little too breathy to be mistaken for a fit of pique.

"Oh," Britt sighed. "That was Al’s idea. But I don’t like it. I’ve changed my mind."

No. He hadn’t changed his mind. Catherine could easily read the stubborn tenacity in the man. He would carry her screaming and kicking to the altar, if need be.

"I think we’ll get married tomorrow." Britt patted her thigh possessively.

"That’s impossible," she gasped in total astonishment.

"Actually, I’ve studied this from several angles and I find tomorrow to be the best solution." He held up his hand and counted off on his fingers. "Problem number one. My house is a wreck. Problem number two. You can’t type with your arm like that--"

"I can type with one hand," she lifted her chin. "And the doctors said I will be able to type with the other hand in no time."

He ignored her and went on. "Problem number three. I have vacation time coming."

She stiffened. "I don’t have any vacation time."

"No sweat. Joshua will let you take a leave--on one condition."

Catherine flinched as she pictured in her mind exactly what he had pictured in his. "Bermuda! You cooked this up with him, didn’t you? I’m supposed to do a feature on Bermuda on my honeymoon."

She saw him tense. Then he smiled ruefully. "I have to get used to that, don’t I? A wife who knows what I’m thinking. It is a little unnerving."

Anxiety raced through her but as much as she wanted him, she had to face this problem head on. "See. You don’t know what you’re getting into. If you married me, I might drive you nuts."

"If I don’t marry you, I’ll go nuts anyway." He wound his arms around her again and she felt her knees go weak.

She twisted her hair around her finger and whispered, "But the doctors keep taking blood. They’ll find out." She bit her bottom lip to stop it from quivering.

He stroked her hair and unraveled the tight knot strangling her finger. "They don’t believe in fairy tales. With all their scientific data, they’ll just write you up as a very delightful mutation."

His tenderness undid her. She had used her power in the worst way, in an evil manner. She had deliberately changed the workings of the universe. The magnitude of her action finally tumbled down on her. She clutched at Britt’s shirt and collapsed in tears.

"You have no idea what I did to you." Despair nearly choked her, but she struggled on with her confession. "I thought you were going to die and that I wouldn’t see you anymore. So the charm I used on you is one that guarantees you will be with me in every other life until the end of time."

She closed her eyes and trembled in his embrace. She tried to block out his thoughts. His silence weighed heavily in the small hospital room.

"So forever with you is really forever," he finally stated softly.

"Yes." She dared to gaze up into his smoldering eyes. She saw such love for her in his heart that hers overflowed with anguish. "Oh, I know it was wrong. Uncle Mike told me only to use my power for healing and instead I tinkered with your fate."

He grabbed a tissue to dab away her tears. "You love me very much."

Miserably, she nodded. "An eternity is a long time to be stuck with anybody. I want to give you your freedom, if I can."

"But I love you very much, too, and I think eternity sounds terrific." He hugged her closer and her heart did a strange flip-flop. Then he pulled back and held her head in his hands. "So what do you think of Bermuda?"

She gave a ragged sigh and tried to mask her interest. "I’ve never been there."

He lowered his head and Catherine glanced up to probe his thoughts. He had been to Bermuda by himself. He’d gone snorkeling. She sighed. She’d never been snorkeling. And anyway, she couldn’t swim.

"I’ll teach you to swim," he whispered.

Catherine blinked. Could he read her mind? Then he kissed her again. The cross at her throat glowed with its strange greenish light and Catherine wondered if eternity with Britt was going to be enough.