Still, it was nothing out of the ordinary in terms of Grace's recent behavior. Though the knife was intrinsically more dangerous-she could have cut herself on the dull, rusty blade.

But at least it was out of her reach now, tucked in the back of Sophie's closet. She could clean the rust stains off it, maybe give it to Doc to dispose of. It was a good-looking knife if one liked that sort of thing, and men seemed uncommonly fascinated with weapons. She didn't think Doc would be, but he probably knew someone in town who'd like it.

As a matter of fact, it had a distinctive handle, a carved white bonelike substance. Not the sort of knife that was kept behind the glass case in Audley's extensive hunting section. Maybe Doc would know who'd lost a knife like that one, and could get it back to its rightful owner. And even come up with a reason why Grace would have found it and hidden it in her drawer.

It was really nothing to worry about. No more than Marty's interest in the new gardener. Patrick Laflamme was immune to her, Marge had assured her. He was much too focused on going back to college and accomplishing things to be distracted by a young girl who meant nothing but trouble. Besides, he had a stern French-Canadian mother who'd keep him on the straight and narrow.

So that situation was safe enough. The inn was almost ready, everything was running smoothly. What was her problem?

She knew perfectly well what her problem was-she just didn't want to think about it. It could be summed up in one word. Well, maybe two. John Smith.

Why in the world had he kissed her like that? And why couldn't she stop thinking about him? It wasn't as if she'd never been kissed. She'd kissed any number of men, looking for one, anyone, who would entice her enough to make her throw caution to the wind. She still hadn't found the right one, but that wasn't for want of trying. She'd kissed more than her share of toads, searching for a prince in disguise. So far they'd all been toads.

Including John Smith-or whatever his name was. Who did he think he was, to grab her like that? What in heaven's name made him think she'd want him to kiss her? Had she been sending out erotic messages? Highly unlikely. Maybe he was just egotistical enough to think any woman would want him to kiss her, including someone who'd gone out of her way to show her dislike...

Had she? Had she been cool and unfriendly? She'd meant to be. But the question was, why? Why did John Smith bring out the worst in her?

Maybe because he was a liar. If his name was John Smith then her name was Madonna. She hated liars.

He also had the totally annoying habit of acting as if he could see right through her. Past the flounces and the flowers, past the jams and pies and soothing rituals. He could see something small and frightened inside her, something she tried to wash away. And she didn't want anyone looking that closely, particularly someone as unnerving as John Smith.

She scooted back down in bed again, closing her eyes. The shadows in the room shifted in the moonlight, and for a moment she cursed her obsessive attention to detail. The room needed light-blocking shades of some sort, or heavy curtains. So far she'd been more than happy to let the sun wake her up at the crack of dawn, and she didn't even mind when the strong moonlight occasionally roused her from sleep.

Tonight she minded. She lay there in the moonlight, listening to every creak and groan the old house made. She'd grown used to those noises, even loved them. It made her think of a kitten purring. Her huge old house was talking to her, making approving noises, telling her she was welcome.

Tonight it felt restless, nagging at her. Silly, Sophie thought. She was the one who was restless. Anxious about the opening of the inn, anxious about her family, anxious about being kissed by an unwelcome stranger who certainly wasn't inspired by love at first sight or even a passing attraction. He made it clear he found her just as tiresome as she found him.

So why did he kiss her?

And when was she going to get back to sleep? Tomorrow would be a long day-she had to call the bedding shop in Burlington to deliver the new mattresses, and the building inspector was coming in the next day or two, and sooner or later she had to get her software up and running. All before strangers started invading her inn.

And maybe that was the crux of it. She'd moved to Vermont, bought the huge old house of her dreams in order to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. She'd worked tirelessly, and everything was coming to fruition. And suddenly she didn't want to share her haven with a bunch of paying guests tromping through her peaceful rooms.

"Get over it," she muttered, keeping her eyes closed. You have to make choices in this life-nothing was ever handed to you on a silver platter. The only way she could afford to live in this peaceful place at the back end of beyond, the only way she could support such a huge old house and her sister and mother besides, was to take in paying guests. Whether she wanted them there or not.

She heard the noise, and for a moment she couldn't place it. Just a quiet clicking sound, coming from below. She had one of the front rooms overlooking the lake, though she knew she would have to give that up when she opened for business. Customers would pay more for a lake view, and Sophie couldn't afford to indulge herself. The wide porch ran directly beneath her open window, and she suddenly realized what she'd heard. The sound of the front door latching.

She scrambled out of bed and opened the door as quietly as possible. For a moment she stood in the hall, wondering if she was being the world's greatest idiot. Like a heroine of an old Gothic romance, she was wandering around in the middle of the night in her nightgown with a murderer on the loose.

But there was no murderer on the loose. She was just getting spooked by the unnerving reminders of those long-ago deaths. The boy had been caught, and even if he'd eventually been freed, in most people's minds there was no doubt he'd done it.

Though her unwelcome neighbor probably had some other theory, or why would he bother snooping around?

No, it was much more likely to be Marty or Grace sneaking out of the house. Marty slipping out for cigarettes or a boy. Maybe Patrick Laflamme wasn't nearly as stalwart as Marge had promised.

She opened Marty's door just a crack, breathing a thankful sigh that she'd oiled the hinges, and peered in at the bed. Marty was sprawled on top of it, her fuchsia-streaked hair startling against the pillow, her face innocent in sleep. For a moment Sophie couldn't move, as a wave of nostalgia washed over her. For all her sullen, teenager defiance, Marty was still a kid. The little sister Sophie had always loved, and somehow felt responsible for. Her parents' deaths had hit her hard, but Sophie had done everything she could to make up for it, to give her a home and security. Seeing her like that, her defenses washed away by sleep, reminded Sophie just how much she loved her and always had. And reminded her to thank God Marty wasn't in the garden shed with Patrick. And the spiders. And the ghosts.

That had been an odd thing for Grace to say. God help them all if she started seeing ghosts and apparitions. Sophie wasn't about to put her in a nursing home-Grace was her responsibility, and Sophie had every intention of keeping her home as long as possible. But how would a delusional old lady mix with her well-heeled clientele?

Sophie closed the door just as silently and made her way down the stairs, carefully avoiding the seventh one that always squeaked no matter how she tried to fix it. Sure enough, Grace's door stood wide open, her rumpled bed empty in the moonlight.

Sophie didn't hesitate. She grabbed a flashlight and a shawl she'd draped across a chair and ran out into the damp night air.

The moon had vanished behind a cloud. There was a mist rising from the lake, spreading out over the sloping lawn like a velvet fog. She tried to beam the flashlight toward the woods, but the light simply bounced off the rolling mist, and there was no sign of anyone.

She couldn't afford to wait. Grace would be heading back to the Whitten place-she'd developed a fascination for it. Or maybe it was a fascination for Mr. Smith, though Sophie doubted it. That particular weakness seemed to be left to her usually hardheaded daughter.

She plunged into the woods, fighting her way through the overgrown ferns and saplings, as the fog swirled around her. The air was cool and damp, almost clammy, and Sophie pulled the shawl tighter around her. At least she wore decent cotton nightgowns, not the skimpy shorty pajamas Marty favored or the slinky silk that used to be Grace's style. She was still shivering, probably because her feet were bare and cold, but she was determined to catch up with her errant mother before she happened to wake her mysterious neighbor. The last thing she wanted was another midnight confrontation with the man. Especially after that kiss this afternoon. Right now all she wanted was to keep her distance.

She could always head back home and call Doc. He'd come out and find Grace, and provide a buffer if Smith decided to come calling. But what if Grace had headed in the opposite direction? Did Sophie dare waste time?

No, she'd be at the Whitten place. Sophie had found her there any number of times, sitting on the porch, humming softly. Her mother seemed to have a fascination for the old house, and an entirely unhealthy fascination for the man who'd rented it. She wouldn't go anywhere else on a midnight stroll.

The Whitten cottage was set in a little clearing among the towering white pines, and the moonlight filtered through the darkness, glancing off the rolling fog. The mist was almost like a living thing. Some giant, lumbering beast, some strange enchantment from an old fairy tale, wrapping itself around the cottage. The house was dark, but the front door was open, and Sophie breathed a silent curse. She was too late.

Or maybe not. There were no lights on-clearly Grace hadn't woken the tenant yet. Maybe there was a chance she could get in there, retrieve Grace and get out before Smith even realized his privacy had been breached once more.

The porch creaked beneath her bare feet, and she tiptoed carefully across it, pushing open the screen door and peering into the house.

"Ma?" she whispered, not too loud. At least Grace still had all her faculties, even if her memory and reasoning power were shot all to hell. If she was there she'd hear Sophie calling her. "Grace, are you there?"

She couldn't see anyone, any movement, and she stepped inside, squinting in the darkness. Immediately the smell assailed her, the unmistakable scent of old wood and paint and years of lakeside living, mixed with the unexpected note of fresh lumber. She took a deep breath, inhaling it, fighting off the wave of pure longing. This should have been her house, Sophie thought for a blind, covetous moment.

And then she remembered what she was doing here. And who was upstairs asleep. "Ma?" she whispered loudly.

She didn't dare climb the narrow stairs to the second level. She was already playing with fire-besides, Grace wasn't the stealthy sort. If she was here, Sophie would have heard her. She tried one last time. "Grace?" she called in a stage whisper.

"She's not here."

Sophie shrieked. Smith had appeared out of nowhere, looming up in the darkness. Blocking the doorway. "What are you doing here?" she demanded in a panicked voice.

"I live here, remember?" he said with thinly disguised impatience. "And your mother hasn't wandered over here tonight. What made you think she had?"

"She's missing." It was bad enough that she was standing in his house in the middle of the night in her nightgown. Somehow the darkness made it worse. Not that she wanted bright lights to expose what she was wearing. Though in fact the nightgown had more fabric in it than some of her dresses. She was being stupid. "Why are you prowling around here in the dark?" she demanded.

"It's my house, I can prowl around all I want. In fact, the power's out. I was just calling the electric company."

"You told me your phone didn't work."

"It didn't work yesterday. They hooked it up today. Why don't you call your house and see if your mother's there?"

"She won't answer the phone."

"Your sister will. That way you'll know whether you really need to panic or not."

"All right," she said grudgingly. He sounded too damned practical for her, and she wanted to get away from him as fast as she could, but if Grace was missing she needed to get help quickly. "Where's the phone?"

"Over by the sofa. You'll have to feel your way there-I don't have a flashlight or candles."

"I do," she said, remembering it belatedly, and she switched it on, shining it on Smith.

Big mistake. He was wearing a pair of ragged cutoff jeans and nothing else. There seemed to be acres and acres of naked, tanned, warm male skin right in front of her, and she dropped the flashlight, which immediately went out, plunging them back into darkness again.

"Smart move," he drawled. "Did you see a ghost?"

There it was again. "I don't believe in ghosts," she said.

"Given the history of this place that's probably just as well," he muttered. "Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"I said your hand, not any other part," he said, annoyed. "I'm going to lead you over to the telephone, preferably without you breaking your neck in the process."

"I think I should just go back..."

He'd already grabbed her hand. He could see better than she could in the darkness, and she had no chance to pull away. His hand was big, strong, warm. Flesh. He moved past her into the pitch-black room. The doorway was empty. She could yank her hand free and run for it if she could just take him by surprise.

"Don't think you can run away," he said, tugging at her. "I won't be responsible for you getting lost in the woods any more than I would for your mother. I have at least a faint sense of decency. Come on."

She didn't bother struggling-it would have been undignified, and her tattered dignity was her only defense by that point. She let him lead her through the darkness, and she only banged her hip once against a wooden object before he placed her hand on the telephone. "There," he said, sounding impatient.

The impatience was both reassuring and annoying. He didn't want her there any more than she wanted to be there-he'd made that entirely clear. He just had a sense of responsibility beneath his remote exterior.

It was an old-fashioned dial phone, probably black and ancient. Touch-tone would have been hard enough in the dark. By the fifth attempt she could hear the phone ringing on the other end, and she only hoped to God that she'd dialed the right number and not some frosty Vermonter.

She let it ring. Her eyes were just beginning to get used to the darkness, and she could tell that Smith's body was once again blocking her escape route. Why did he have to be so damned big? So damned there? So damned naked? It was a cool night-he should be sleeping in pajamas like any sensible man, not in skimpy little cutoffs....

"Yeah? What is it?" Marty's sleepy voice finally answered the phone.

"Grace has disappeared. I've been looking everywhere for her-would you check her room and see if by any chance she's come back in? I'd hate to call the police for nothing."

"All right." She sounded martyred, as always, and Sophie clutched the phone tightly as she listened to Marty's footsteps shuffle away.

It seemed to take her forever. When she finally got back on the phone she'd gone beyond begrudging to outright annoyed. "She's sound asleep in her bed, Sophie."

"Are you sure? I heard the door close and..."

"I'm sure. You must have been dreaming. Where the hell are you, anyway?"

"I'm at the Whitten place. I thought she might have come back here...."

"The Whitten place? O-kay." There was no doubt Marty knew exactly who she was with. "Don't wake me up when you get back home."

"It'll only take a couple of minutes. You'll still be awake."

Marty's laugh was far from comforting. "Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. Have fun, sis. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Marty..." But Marty had already hung up the phone-leaving Sophie with no choice but to hang up the other end and somehow figure out a way to get by her unwilling host without him touching her again.

He wasn't there. He'd disappeared while she was talking to Marty, obviously having lost interest in her. Again one of those moments of regret-tinged relief. At least he wouldn't interfere with her leaving.

She headed straight for the door, bumping into two more objects and almost knocking down a table in her haste. "Thanks for letting me use the phone," she called out into the darkness as she pushed open the screen door.

"Anytime," he said from the porch. "Now, why don't you tell me why you really came here."

12.

She should have known she couldn't escape that easily, Sophie thought. Not the way her luck had been running. He was standing on the porch, leaning against the railing, and the moon had come out again, sending a silvery light over the landscape, a shimmering trail on the mirror-still lake. He was even better-looking in the moonlight, she thought irritably. Why couldn't life ever be simple?

She pushed open the screen door, letting it slam behind her as she stepped out onto the porch. Into the night. "I told you why I came here," she said patiently. "I was looking for my mother."

"Who was sound asleep in bed."

"It was a logical assumption. She was here the other night," Sophie protested. "I thought I heard the outside door closing, and when I went down to check on her, her room was empty."

"Did you think to check the bathroom?"

"No," she muttered. "That was probably where she was. She gets up several times during the night."

"Too much information," he drawled. "So why the panic tonight? It would have taken only a moment to see if your mother had wandered off, and presumably no one could have gotten in without jimmying the door. You do lock the doors, don't you?"

"Do you think I'm some kind of idiot?" she demanded huffily.

Wrong question. "Yes. What kind of lock do you have?"

"Whatever came with the house."

"Jesus Christ, woman, don't you have any sense at all?" he exploded. "The first thing you should have done was have the locks upgraded on the place. Three women alone out here at the end of the lake, with no one around..."

"You're around," she pointed out.

"I just got here. And you trust me about as far as you'd trust Jack the Ripper. Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?" He sounded really annoyed with her.

"The crime rate around Colby is very low," she said in a haughty voice.

"This year, maybe," he muttered. "Get new locks for the doors. It won't keep anyone out who's really determined, but it could slow them down."

"Why would someone want to break in?"

"People do all sorts of strange things. Maybe someone's developed a mad passion for you."