Gracey's eyes brightened for a moment. "Oh, yes, love," she said. "I remember now. I told you you needed to get laid."

Mr. Smith's choking sound didn't make the hideous situation any better. Doc had jumped in quickly, taking Gracey's thin hand. "Now, Gracey, you know you're not supposed to say things like that."

"But it's true. Sex is very healthy for a young woman like Sophie. Besides, he's very attractive. Isn't he, Sophie?"

Sophie tried not to cringe. "He's not my type, Mama. Why don't you go back to the house with Doc and..."

"What do you mean, he's not your type? You're too picky." She swung her wicked gaze to the silent stranger. "Tell me, Mr. Smith, are you married?"

"No."

"Involved? Gay?"

"No," he said. The monosyllable was delivered entirely without inflection, and Sophie refused to look at him to see his reaction to her mother's outrageousness.

"You see!" her mother said triumphantly. "He'd be perfect. You go off and have sex with him and I'll look after the inn. Marty can help me."

"Come along, Gracey," Doc said kindly. "I'll make you a cup of tea."

Sophie didn't wait any longer. She headed toward the narrow path through the woods, not stopping to see if John Smith was following. If he wasn't, just as well. She'd keep going, hike out to the main road and circle back to the inn.

He was close behind her-there was no escape. He waited until they were out of sight of the inn, almost at the edge of the Whitten place, before he spoke.

"Why are the women in your family so interested in my sex life?" He sounded no more than vaguely curious, but Sophie wasn't fooled.

It was now or never. She stopped, turning to look at him. He was closer than she'd realized, and she had to look up. He was the kind of man you'd need to wear high heels around, so as not to let his height intimidate you. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you think I want to have sex with your seventeen-year-old sister, your mother thinks I ought to have sex with you, and I imagine Marthe probably has ideas of her own."

"Well, you can just ignore any ideas Marty might have. She's an impressionable teenager. And ignore my mother, as well-surely you can see she's got some kind of senile dementia."

"Maybe," he said. "But I think she's a lot sharper than she pretends to be."

"And you base that on what? Five minutes in her company? Or the absurd notion that I would want to go to bed with you?"

"See? Obsessed with sex," Mr. Smith said in a calm voice.

"I'm not! We're not." She took a deep breath. "I have no interest in you at all, Mr. Smith, except to help out a neighbor in need."

"And to keep your sister away from me."

It would be foolish to deny it. "There's that, too."

He nodded. "As long as you're honest," he said. "I don't like lying."

"Neither do I, Mr. Smith." Another man might have missed her slight emphasis on his anonymous name. He didn't.

His faint smile was self-deprecating, but he didn't say a word. He just moved past her down the path to the derelict old house.

A weaker woman would have simply turned and headed back home. Sophie squared her shoulders and followed him, pushing the tall grass out of her way as she kept his back firmly in her view. Not that she would have had any trouble finding her way. She'd explored the property around the abandoned Whitten house not long after they moved to Colby, and whenever things were overwhelming at the inn she'd disappear for a few hours, sit on the porch and watch the quiet glide of the water as it moved past the rocky point of land just beyond the house.

She took her time, and he was waiting for her on the porch when she got there. "Did you know I've got an option to buy this place?" he asked abruptly.

She doubted she could keep the stricken expression off her face. "Why?"

"I like it here. The peace and quiet. The remoteness."

"The house is a mess. I doubt it could be winterized, and there's no way to earn a living year round..."

"Maybe I could turn it into a bed-and-breakfast."

She stared at him in horror. "What?"

His slight smile was far from reassuring. "I'm kidding," he said. "Do I strike you as the hospitable type? I'm not sure I even like sharing this end of the lake with anyone, much less my house."

She took a deep breath. "No wonder you're unattached."

"Are we back to sex again?"

"No!" She moved past him, pushing open the torn and rickety screen door and walking into the old cottage. She'd never been inside before, only peered through the windows, but it looked and smelled just as she'd imagined it. The furniture was old and solid-a mission oak sofa and table that had probably been built at the same time as the house; a couple of sturdy rocking chairs; a wide table and chairs. The fieldstone fireplace held nothing but ashes, the bookshelves were crammed with the detritus of vacationers over the years-Reader's Digest condensed books and paperback mysteries. The floor creaked beneath her feet, and the mice had gotten into the braided rug. And if the so-called Mr. Smith bought this old wreck out from under her she'd kill him.

If there'd been any way to turn this place into a bed-and-breakfast she would have bought it in a snap. The Niles homestead was bigger, with more lake frontage and the good-size wing in back for when she wanted to expand. But the Whitten house called to her soul, a hidden little jewel in the forest by the lake.

"What do you think?" he asked, oblivious to her covetous thoughts.

"I think you need an army of people to come in and shovel out this place," she said frankly. "The screens are torn, the chimney probably needs cleaning, the cushions have been chewed by animals. What's the roof like?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," he said wryly.

Without thinking she started up the long, narrow stairs to the second floor. There were four bedrooms and a bath off the center hallway. The claw-footed bathtub was stained with rust, the old linoleum on the floor was cracked and torn. Three of the bedrooms were abandoned, smelling of mice and mildew, the fourth was relatively more habitable.

It had a fireplace, as well, probably connected to the same sorry chimney. The old iron bed was high and wide, covered with quilts and a myriad of pillows that had somehow survived the mice. The casement windows stood open to the lake, and an old wicker chair had been drawn up close. There was a book open on the floor beside it, and she moved closer, curious. Then she realized that Mr. Smith had followed her up the stairs and was leaning in the doorway, watching her while she poked around his bedroom.

"Looks like the roof needs replacing," she said calmly. "Or at least mending."

"Oh, really?"

The man was very annoying. He either said too much or too little. "Look at the watermarks on the ceiling by the fireplace," she said. "The flashing needs fixing. And there are some stains near the window. Maybe ice dams, but since this house isn't used in the winter that's probably not it. No one shovels the roof in the winter, so it's most likely weakened from the weight of the snow. You need someone to come and check it out or the whole thing might collapse on you while you're lying in bed."

Damn, why had she said the word bed? she thought hastily. Without thinking they both turned to contemplate the bed. "We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Mr. Smith said. "Who do I call?"

She was still curious about that thick tome by the side of his chair, and she had no intention of leaving the room until she read the title. "Hank Maynard fixes chimneys. Zebulon King does carpentry, and you can probably get his wife and son to come in and clean the place if they're not too busy working for the other summer people. They're a little odd, but good workers."

"Summer people? Is that what I am?" He sounded amused at the notion.

"Those are the people who come in the summer and leave when it gets cold. You're a summer person."

"What makes you think I'll be leaving?"

She ignored that. "How's the plumbing?"

"Aren't you going to check?" he asked. "You're very thorough."

She refused to blink. "I'll take your word for it."

"The water's rusty, but the pipes seem to work."

She moved around the chair, too damned close to the bed, ostensibly to look at the casement windows. The framing seemed in good shape, and the glass was still intact. She glanced down at the book, then stepped back hastily.

"Finished?" he asked pleasantly.

"Finished. I'll write down those names and phone numbers for you. The first rush of summer business is over, so they should be able to help you. I imagine Marge Averill can send the bills to whoever still owns this place." She looked up at him. "You really ought to find a more comfortable place to rent. This place is in lousy condition-anyone would be a fool to buy it."

"What makes you think I'm interested in buying it?"

A wave of relief washed over Sophie. "Silly of me. No one would want to buy this place...."

"Except you, obviously. Don't worry, Sophie. I'm not here permanently. You'll have your privacy back before long."

She still didn't trust him. "In the meantime I'm not sure how safe this place is. Maybe you ought to see about renting the Wilson place on Black's Point-"

"I like it right here." He moved out of the doorway, just enough to let her pass. She had to brush against him in the narrow, dark space, and she didn't like it. She found she was holding her breath until she got past him.

She was sitting at the table, scribbling down notes, when he came up behind her. She concentrated on her list, ignoring him, until he spoke.

"So what happened to the Whitten girl?"

She glanced up at him. "I imagine she just got bored with the place and took off. Just because there were murders here a long time ago doesn't mean that it will happen again. Most young women need a little more adventure than Colby can offer."

"Don't you?"

"I've never cared much for adventure," she said in a calm voice.

"When did she disappear? Before or after the killer got out of jail?"

She turned to face him. "You seem awfully interested in our old murders, Mr. Smith."

He shrugged. "Just curious."

"Curious enough to be reading a book called Encyclopedia of Serial Killers?" she shot back. "You're as bad as my mother."

"Your mother likes to read about serial killers? How very interesting."

"She used to like true-crime books. Now she doesn't read much of anything." She rose from the table. "Those names should get you started. That is, if you've decided to stay."

"Oh, I've decided. Nothing could make me leave here until I'm good and ready to go."

It was far from the best news she'd ever heard. There also wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. "I need to get back to the inn," she said.

"Of course you do. You've been very...neighborly."

She didn't glare at him, as much as she wanted to. She headed toward the door, uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her. She paused. "I wouldn't drink the water from the tap if I were you. Buy some bottled stuff at Audley's. I think they get the water straight from the lake here."

"I don't mind a little gasoline."

"That would be the least of your worries. I'd hate to think of how sick you'd be if you picked up something organic. Stomach bugs can be downright nasty around here."

"Now, why do I have trouble believing you care?" he murmured.

"If you were doubled over in your bathroom you'd be out of reach of my sister, but I don't think I could in good conscience let that happen," she said in her coolest voice.

"It's not your sister I'm interested in."

She almost thought she'd misunderstood him. She stared at him across the room, but he didn't even blink. Finally, she gave in to her cowardice, letting the screen door slam behind her as she made her escape down the path.

5.

Why the hell had he said that? Griffin picked up the sheet of paper and squinted at the names, then took off his glasses to get a better look. Instead he found himself analyzing her handwriting. He would have thought she'd have a tight-fisted, crabbed style of writing. That, or something with too many curlicues and even smiley faces over the Is. Instead she had a bold, slashing script, a little hard to read, but strong. He glanced up at the screen door, half expecting her to still be there. She was long gone.

Not his type, he reminded himself. He liked his women skinny and sophisticated, with short skirts and long legs and no emotion. He wasn't interested in a chintz-wearing domestic goddess who viewed him as the Big Bad Wolf come to chow down on her little sister. Particularly when Sophie Davis was much more succulent.

The thought was unbidden and quickly dismissed. He didn't have the time or the inclination to spend thinking about getting beneath his neighbor's flowered, ruffled skirts, even though he was obscurely tempted. He needed to find out what he wanted to know and then get the hell out of there. Telling her he was thinking of buying the Whitten place was just a bluff, to see her reaction. There was no way he'd tie himself to a town like Colby, not with his history. No matter how much it called to him. It was nostalgia, not destiny. Hell, he didn't even believe in destiny, or much of anything at all.

In the meantime, though, he was going to have to make himself more comfortable, and getting rid of mouse turds and being able to make a decent cup of coffee were two major requirements. Not to mention making sure the roof didn't fall in on him while he was lying in bed with...

Lying in bed alone, he reminded himself sharply.

Shit, maybe it was the air around Colby. Maybe he hadn't just been a randy young drifter, maybe the air had an aphrodisiac quality. Because truth to tell, he'd been hard ever since he'd seen Sophie Davis look at his rumpled bed, and he knew better than that.

Get in, do the job and get out. It had always been his mantra in life, and this situation was no different. He needed to concentrate on finding out what happened twenty years ago, not waste his time being distracted by animal instincts he'd long outgrown.

He leaned back in the old chair, looking at the decrepit cottage with new eyes. So Sara Ann Whitten had disappeared some time while he'd been in prison? He tried to remember her but came up blank. The Whittens had been an older couple, and their daughter must have been too young to catch Griffin's predatory eye at the time.

He glanced around the room. In the wake of Colby's burgeoning revival as an exclusive vacation spot, this place would be worth a fortune. Instead it sat by the lake, abandoned, for years on end. According to the real estate agent the title on the old house was murky. The parents were dead, and the daughter had been missing for years. There was no one around to care enough to have the girl declared dead, no one who cared enough to see to the old house. The town fathers had finally decided to rent it to cover some of the unpaid taxes, but sooner or later it would be sold at auction.

What would make a young girl run away? Granted, northern Vermont was about as far off the beaten track as you could get, but to never return, never tell anyone where you were going, seemed unlikely. Particularly when a murderer had roamed that very area.

Too bad for Sara Ann Whitten, but he really wanted to believe she was murdered, her body buried somewhere. Because that would prove without a doubt that he hadn't killed anyone, that there'd been a serial killer loose who happened to prey on the young women of Colby's year-round community. Or at least it would prove it enough to give him peace of mind.

He reached for his notebook, shoved the list of names inside, then started writing. Number one, get into the hospital wing and see if anything jarred his memory. Number two, find out anything he could about Sara Ann Whitten. When she disappeared, who she was involved with at the time, what people thought happened. See if she had any friends still around who might have heard from her.