With the windows clear, the house seemed lighter and airier. Tomorrow she'd open all the windows and let out the mustiness of the years. She found herself back in the low-ceilinged kitchen. The room fascinated her. With small windows overlooking the kitchen garden, it seemed another world from the s.p.a.cious drawing room and paneled dining room. The world of servant and mistress perhaps? Except her great-aunts had lived alone. Before, when Gran and her sisters had been girls, things must have been different. Dixie imagined rosy-cheeked parlor maids and a plump cook seated around the scrubbed pine table.

Not for the first time, Dixie wished Gran had talked about her youth. She'd always evaded any questions and discouraged Dixie's curiosity. "Life's good here," she'd say. "Don't shovel up history." When a teenaged Dixie wanted to visit Gran's sisters on a much discussed, but never accomplished, backpacking tour of Europe, Gran shook her head. "A pair of nasty, spiteful old hags. You don't even want to know about them."

"Is that book intended to repulse the world in general or just Chadwick?" Christopher smiled down at her. He could melt gla.s.s marbles with that smile.

"It didn't work with you, did it?"

"Did you intend it to?"

A tougher woman wouldn't have smiled back or felt a flush of warm pleasure when he rested his hand on the back of the chair opposite and said, "May I?"

At least he asked this time. She nodded, trying not to grin.

"Don't let me interrupt your supper," he said. "How is it?"

Dixie looked down at the cauliflower cheese she'd ordered in a spirit of adventure. "Surprisingly good." She picked up her fork. She hadn't been aware of putting it down.

"How are things with the house?" He leaned one arm over the back of his chair and stretched out his legs. He didn't nudge knees like Sebastian had, but his feet posed a hazard to pa.s.sersby.

"Fine. I've got water and electricity connected, and a promise of a phone. I've learned how to light an Aga, and met two neighbors. Quite a day, in fact." And so different from any other day in her life so far.

"You've moved in?"

"Not yet. But I plan to. Maybe next week."

"Are you sure it's a good idea?"

"Why pay for bed and breakfast when I own a whole house? Plus, if I'm in the house, it might discourage nocturnal visitors. Remember Wednesday."

"You're certain someone was there? It could have been moonlight on the windows. Or shadows."

"The man in the moon doesn't drop a flashlight heavy enough to figure as a murder weapon." She looked straight at him. Did having only one good eye double the emotion he showed? Dark brows creased almost to touching. They even caused his eye patch to s.h.i.+ft. Was he angry? Worried?

"If you're sure about finding the torch, you'd better tell the police."

"That's what Emma said but it seems a lot of fuss."

He shook his head. "Fuss or not, report it."

He'd gone from suggesting to ordering in ten seconds. What next? "I will in the morning. If I get around to it."

"What's wrong with now? Sergeant Grace is right over there."

Dixie turned. A gray-haired uniformed policeman leaned against the bar.

"I'll get him." Christopher was halfway back before she thought to object.

"Evening, madam. I'm Sergeant Grace. Mr. Marlowe here says you've had a spot of bother." He pulled a chair up to the table, flipped open a notepad and took her name and address. "Orchard House, eh? Well, well, what's been going on?"

Dixie resigned herself to recounting the whole story. In the retelling, it sounded like the fevered exaggerations of jet lag.

Sergeant Grace didn't think so. He listened, nodded, and asked when she planned on moving in. "Well, well," he flipped the notebook shut. "Seems to me you'd best get good locks if you plan on staying. Probably some yobs with nothing better to do, but it never hurts to be careful. Miss Hope, she claimed someone was trying to break in. Of course, she was getting frail at the end." He stood up. "I'll ask the patrol cars to drive by once in a while. Just to keep an eye on things. Give us a ring if anything else happens."

She would, if she ever got a phone.

Sergeant Grace left. Christopher didn't. He seemed settled until closing time. "Feel safer with the law on the alert?"

"I like the idea of a car driving by. Discourages unwelcome visitors."

A slim, white finger circled the rim of his gla.s.s. "Would I be included in that description? I'm serious about looking over the library."

Smiles like his should be illegal. "No harm in looking."

"I'll be over in a couple of days. Can I get you another drink?"

"Thanks, but I'm driving home."

When she stood up, he followed her out. "Scared I'll get lost?" One hand rested on the roof of her car, the other closed the door for her and curled round the open window edge. Immaculately manicured nails appeared chalk white against the dark paintwork. It had to be a trick of the moonlight.

"Dixie," he said, his face a pale oval in the night, "don't explore anymore at night. This may not be New York or Atlanta, but things happen. That house has been empty for months. If you do move in, change the locks." A half-smile quivered around his mouth. "I suppose I sound like Uncle Christopher?"

No. He wasn't the least avuncular. "It's not that, but you're the third person today to suggest I change the locks."

"Might be good advice." She couldn't argue. She agreed.

Christopher watched the taillights disappear down the lane. So, she planned on moving in, claiming her property, and discouraging unwelcome visitors. She had guts to match her beauty, but no notion what she was taking on. He'd have his work cut out.

If he had any sense he'd leave. Now. But he couldn't. He had to see that library and Dixie would invite him in.

Dixie! Dixie LePage could be his downfall-if he let her. He wouldn't. He was stronger than any mortal, even one with auburn hair, green eyes like polished gla.s.s, a smile that scrambled his senses, and warm, sweet blood coursing through her veins.

But he wanted her and he'd never dare have her.

"Staying then?" Stan Collins asked.

"Just a month or so. Until I get things straight." She'd taken an hour off from scrubbing to drive over to Horsley and extend her rental agreement.

"It's booked for a weekend in June. If you're still here then, I'll give you another one. Just a weekend switch, okay?"

Dixie agreed and scribbled a reminder on a notepad she'd bought in the village. A search through her belongings hadn't turned up her organizer. They agreed on a special rate for a long rental.

"Just don't start driving to Scotland on weekends," Stan warned.

She promised not to, and drove home to her mops and scrub brushes.

Sebastian's Jag purred to a halt outside Emily's front gate. Glancing from her bedroom window, Dixie smoothed the linen skirt of her business suit. The loan of Emily's iron had improved its appearance, and an electric blue silk blouse she'd found at Maude's in the village completed her outfit. After a day of scrubbing in jeans, it felt great to be dressed up.

Downstairs, Emily and Sebastian faced each other like a pair of bristling porcupines. Dixie wondered if she'd need body armor to walk between them. Emily stood back and grunted some comment that could have been a wish for a pleasant evening. As the front door closed behind them, Dixie felt a warm hand on the small of her back, propelling her towards the car.

"That color really suits you," Sebastian said. "It really looks wonderful. Not everyone can wear it, but you have just the right hair and skin." His breath on her neck felt even warmer than his fingers. Dixie hoped he'd keep both hands on the steering wheel.

The Whytes lived in a converted barn six or seven miles towards Guildford. Forty-odd people filled the high-ceilinged living room-not exactly the "drinks with some of the locals" she'd expected.

"How do you do?" A beaming, red-faced man clasped her hand in his enormous paw. "Glad you came."

In a whirl of introductions, Dixie heard and forgot a dozen names. With a gin and tonic plus extra ice-two cubes just wasn't enough-in hand, she looked around the Whytes' living room at the wrought iron chandeliers, the polished floor with hand-woven rugs, the stone chimney that rose two stories and what had to be an original Warhol soup can over the sofa. Insurance must pay well.

Glancing around the room, Dixie looked at all the people she didn't know and felt terribly alone. Why in the name of heaven had she left Charleston, home and security? She longed for a familiar face. As if in answer to prayer, she glimpsed her neighbor, Emma, through the crowd. Sebastian was deep in conversation about some plan to widen a road. Dixie crossed the room to Emma.

Christopher smelled her, sweeter and fresher than any other mortal here, the minute she entered the house. He hadn't expected her, and seeing her with Caughleigh puzzled him. Until now, he'd known what Caughleigh wanted. How did Dixie fit in? Was she p.a.w.n or partner? Christopher rattled the ice cubes in his gla.s.s and watched Dixie stroll across the room to Ian Gordon's wife.

At least the beautiful American had sense to distance herself from Caughleigh. Did she know what he was? He stifled the urge to cross the room, grab her and warn her of the risks Sebastian Caughleigh spread around. He'd let a pretty face drag him into trouble once before. Never again. He'd learned something in four centuries. He didn't need, want nor care for any mortal woman, no matter how warm her smile or sweet the murmur of blood under her creamy skin. She'd bring him nothing but trouble and he carried a miasma of disaster. The only person worse for her was Sebastian Caughleigh-or Chadwick.

Christopher leaned against the chimney breast, watched Emma pull Dixie into a group of young women and imagined the conversation about babysitters, window cleaners and the best place to get a manicure this side of Guildford.

"Admiring the rich American heiress?" Larry Whyte sipped from fee inevitable Scotch as he smiled at Christopher. "Watch out!

I think Sebastian Caughleigh has set his sights on her."

"Really?" That thought alone made him want to join the fray. "What about professional detachment and ethics?"

"We're talking about Sebastian Caughleigh." Larry chuckled. Christopher wasn't amused. "There's something about Americans," Larry went on. "They've got so much energy. All bounce and bubbles. She'd be a nice toss in the sack. I rather envy Sebastian, but don't tell Janet."

Christopher wanted to force Larry's bulbous nose into his Scotch until he bubbled. He wanted to pin him against the chimney and bash his face into the rough-cut stone. He wanted to wipe the complacency off his s.h.i.+ny face. But that sort of behavior raised eyebrows in the stockbroker belt, so he drew in his breath and his fury. His fist closed. Tight. He felt cold and wet on his cuff and realized he'd snapped the stem of his gla.s.s.

"You run a cleaning business?" Dixie asked, catching a comment in the conversation.

Sally nodded. "Want an estimate?"

"As soon as you can."

"How about Monday morning?"

Dixie couldn't wait. Today had shown the ineffectiveness of one woman, one mop to clean the grime of years. Sally had a cleaning business. Dixie definitely needed it.

"Let's try the goodies," Emma suggested and Dixie followed her to the buffet. A plate of vegetables and a bowl of hummus caught Dixie's eye. She dipped a square of pita bread into the creamy paste. Delicious! She took a second piece, reached into the bowl, and brushed another hand, a pale hand with long, manicured nails buffed to milky whiteness. She knew those fingers.

Her hand froze but her eyes gazed up at a leather eye patch.

He smiled and her stomach slipped halfway to her knees. His eyes shone and her stomach went the rest of the way. Heart racing, she straightened, left the bread in the dish and held out her hand. "h.e.l.lo, this is a surprise.""That's a village for you. Always meeting the same people."

"Is that a disadvantage?"

His full lips quivered at the corners. "Not this time."

"This time you can enjoy the evening. You don't have to rescue me from James."

"Not from James," he replied and glanced over at Sebastian, who was still talking road widening. "You came with Caughleigh?"

"Yes, I did."

"You could always leave with me and set the village talking."

"Better not add any more to the gossip mill. I never realized how fascinating Americans are until I came here."

"There's not been much to talk about since your aunts died."

"Great-aunts."

They'd wandered from the table to the fireplace. Dixie leaned back against the stone but Christopher grabbed her upper arm.

"Careful," he warned.

Dixie barely heard him, between goose b.u.mps from the cool touch of his hand and shock at the pile of broken gla.s.s she'd almost impaled her elbow on. "What ratbrain left that there?"

"Guilty," he replied. "I hoped to hide the destruction. It could get me blacklisted from the dinner party circuit."

"I won' tell." She couldn't help it. Eyes like his had to be smiled at. And his mouth-that didn't bear thinking about. He was a man she'd met in a pub, for goodness sake. She knew nothing about him. She wasn't going to fantasize about him. She'd be sensible. "Did you drop it?"

"What?"

"The gla.s.s you tried to conceal."

"Just squeezed it too tight."

That was crazy. Dixie took both his hands in hers and turned them over. "You didn't even cut yourself and that gla.s.s broke in a dozen pieces."

"I'm Superman," he said, stepping closer and closing her hands inside his cool grasp.

Dixie looked up at smooth, pale skin and parted lips and a smile that sent her stomach south.

"There you are. I thought you'd disappeared on me."

Dixie jumped at Sebastian's voice and dropped Christopher's hands. She heard a sharp hiss that wasn't Sebastian's.

"Three minutes longer, she would have," Christopher said.Chapter Three

"I don't think Miss LePage will fall for your conjuring tricks." Sebastian sneered nastily enough for a melodrama villain.

Christopher leaned a cashmere-covered elbow on the chimney, just missing the heap of broken gla.s.s, straightened his neck, relaxed his shoulders-and smiled. "Come now, Caughleigh. What makes you so sure you know what Dixie falls for?"

"I'm not falling for this, that's certain," Dixie muttered. At least, she'd meant it to be a mutter. They both seemed to hear.

Christopher positively grinned. Sebastian clenched his fists. He was as unamused as Queen Victoria.

He tapped her arm. "Maybe we should be going. The reservation's at eight."