"Pleasant evening," Christopher said to the still-gasping Caughleigh and carefully shut the door. The evenings were still a trifle chilly.

He had his back to her, but there was no mistaking those wide shoulders and blue-black hair. After an afternoon watching him among the books, Dixie could pick Christopher out of a Super Bowl crowd. He turned before she closed the door. His smile broke through the smoky haze. s.h.i.+vering wasn't enough. She ached at the sight of him.She'd lost her senses. She didn't need them. She'd been crazy to come. What sort of woman came looking for a man in a bar?

But this was the Barley Mow, with Vernon limping around, wiping tables and gathering up used gla.s.ses and Alf at the bar.

Christopher and Alf exchanged words.

Alf took down a gla.s.s. By the time she crossed to the bar, a half of Guinness waited for her. "Your usual, Miss LePage." She reached into her pocket but he shook his head. "It's taken care of." He nodded up at Christopher.

A pale hand rested inches from hers. Dixie stared at the white, perfectly manicured nails, slender fingers, narrow wrist and muscular forearm. "This one's on me," Christopher said.

She jerked her head up and saw his smile. Had he noticed her ogling his hands? Please, no. "Thanks." She took a sip from the heavy gla.s.s mug. Swallowing wasn't easy.

"What's going to tempt you tonight?" he asked.

"What?" And what did that grin mean?

"What gustatory delight on Alf's menu?"

"Oh." She stared up at the chalkboard menu and took three deep breaths. "I'll have a jacket potato with a shrimp c.o.c.ktail, Alf."

"We'll be over in the conservatory," Christopher told Alf.

"We will, will we?"

"I want to talk business. If we do it here, we might as well publish it in the local paper."

That made sense. She took her Guinness and followed him until they found an empty table. He raised his wine gla.s.s to his lips and sipped, pursing his lips together as he swallowed, then a bright red tongue smoothed over his full lips. Dixie felt herself mirroring the gesture as her stomach did a flip. This was ridiculous! They'd come here to discuss first editions, hadn't they?

"Here you are, one jacket potato with a shrimp c.o.c.ktail." Dixie stared at the plate Vernon placed in front of her. She hadn't realized the shrimp c.o.c.ktail would already be sauced, and she'd never expected to get it on top of the potato.

"Looks tasty," Christopher said.

Dixie nodded. Once over the initial surprise, it did look appetizing. But when she met Christopher's eye, she wondered if he'd meant the spud.

She tasted a shrimp, the tang of c.o.c.ktail sauce was sharper than she'd expected, a strange mix of vinegar and something she couldn't recognize. She let it sit on her tongue, trying to identify the elusive taste and hoping to calm her racing pulse. If her stomach didn't settle soon, she'd never be able to swallow. She managed one shrimp. It was small enough that she swallowed it whole. The taste lingered on her tongue, strange and unexpected as the combination on the plate in front of her, as alien as the one-eyed man watching her.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said, sipping from her gla.s.s to wet her dry throat.

"I know."

"About the books you wanted."

"Yes." He smiled. His wide mouth spread to reveal teeth white as alabaster. He laughed, a warm chuckle that came from deep in his belly, and his eye twinkled. His lips closed, but he still smiled as he leaned back and tilted his chair. "I know why you came, Dixie."He whispered but it felt as if he'd shouted. The words echoed like a siren in her mind. Did he? How could he? Please, she wasn't that obvious, was she?

This time it took three deep breaths and a couple of mouthfuls of jacket potato, but at least she could still swallow. "The books you wanted. I found an antiquarian bookshop in Guildford in the yellow pages. I plan to get them valued."

"Name your price, I'll pay it."

"What about the first-edition forgery? You want that too?"

He nodded. "Especially that. Couldn't let my namesake get away, could I?" Broad shouldered and handsome as sin, one arm draped over the back of his chair, he could probably get away with anything. But not with her. She'd come here to get over men, not tangle with them. She'd successfully evaded James and Sebastian; she wasn't falling for one-eyed Christopher, no matter how wide his smile or inviting his lips.

"I'll get back with you as soon as I have a price."

"I'll be waiting." He rested an elbow on the back of his chair. Slim fingers rubbed his chin. He watched her the way a gambler might study his cards, a.s.sessing his hand and planning a finesse. His lips parted slightly, the pad of his index finger traced the fullness of his lips. s.h.i.+vers raced like cold mercury up and down Dixie's spine. Who was she fooling? He wasn't talking first editions here. He wanted more than a look at her books. And so did she. Her body hadn't reacted this way for months. In the silence between them, a strange clarity hit her. This man could give her incredible joy and pleasure and heartbreak. And she'd had enough of the latter to last two lifetimes.

Now was the time for a quick exit.

She stood up. "I'll get back in touch with you."

Like one of the slow motion scenes in a movie, he reached over and wrapped his cold fingers round her wrist. She could have moved. She didn't want to. "Don't go, Dixie. Besides, you haven't eaten your dinner." She'd swallowed three mouthfuls, if that.

"Alf put that on the menu just for you; don't hurt his feelings."

Alf's feelings would survive. Would hers? She sat back down to find out. And maybe find out something else. "Tell me about my great-aunts," she said. If he got talking, maybe he wouldn't look at her in quite the same way.

"What about them?"

"Anything. I'm living in their house, sleeping on their bed, making coffee in their kitchen and they're strangers. I know nothing about them. Except Gran didn't like them."

His frown eased a little. "What did your Gran tell you?"

"She broke with them when she married Grandpa. They never wrote or phoned or anything. It's so odd they left the house to her."

"Their father left it to the three of them for life, and then to their heirs. It came to you as the only survivor."

How did he know? "You're up on village gossip?"

"Not gossip. Fact. Ask your friend Sebastian."

"He's hardly my friend.""I'm relieved to hear it."

Was he flirting? Smiling like that, who knew? "Get serious. Tell me about them. Gran called them witches. Were they?"

"I thought you didn't believe in witches and vampires and things that go b.u.mp in the night."

"I don't, but I spent a couple of hours looking at your books and the others in that section. Not everyone shares my skepticism."

His mouth twitched at the corners. "And what a beautiful skeptic you are."

"Yeah, right." But she didn't laugh it off-the snicker died as she met his eye. Flirting was one thing, this was-what?

"Right," he whispered. "Are you skeptical about compliments?"

"Not compliments. Men!" She wanted to choke herself. That wasn't supposed to jump out like that.

It didn't faze Christopher. His dry, deep chuckle emerged like a ripple of spring suns.h.i.+ne. "Don't worry. You'll be safe with me."

Meeting the warmth of his velvet-brown eye, she wondered about that. She gave her potato a lot of attention for the next few minutes. "Back to my aunts," she said. "Were they witches?"

"Black witches? No. They were a pair of eccentric old ladies who longed for the feudal ages when they'd have controlled the whole country."

"And all the books?"

"Bought by their father. A retired colonel from the Indian Army. An old martinet if ever there was one. He treated his daughters like unpaid servants, his servants like slaves, and ran the village. He was in charge of the local Home Guard during the war.

One day a group came to discuss invasion defenses. One of them was a young captain from the United States Army. Your great-grandfather invited them to dinner.

"The rest, as they say, is history. They stayed around for a week or so. Six months later, three days after her twenty-first birthday, your grandmother got married in London. They say the old colonel never let a single man under sixty into the house after that."

That tallied with Gran's version. "Didn't they have a mother?"

"She died out in India."

"How do you know all this? It happened years before you were born."

He hesitated, just a beat. "This is a village. Gossip keeps a long time."

He'd given more information in five minutes that Gran had in a lifetime. She wanted to go home, and think about it. She drained the last mouthful of Guinness and set the gla.s.s on the table. The creamy rings of lather clung to the gla.s.s like stray thoughts, unclear and indistinct. Christopher watched her. She knew it even as she watched the slow beads of froth descend the inside of her empty gla.s.s. Her breath caught in her throat.

"You walked." It wasn't a question.

This time he didn't offer to walk her home. He didn't need to. There was no moon, but Christopher had no problem finding the path. She stumbled on a root, but he reached out and caught her. After that, it made sense to hold his hand and follow him across the green. It also made for distraction and wild imaginings. Her fingers felt warm against his, his handclasp firm and sure.

How would his fingers feel on her neck, her shoulders, her... ? Enough. She didn't want any involvement. She'd come here to catch her breath and find peace of mind. Not lose it.

"No visitors tonight," he said as they stood on the gravel drive looking up at the house.

"With my new locks, they'd have to be desperate to keep trying."

"Maybe they are..." He whispered it, as if talking to himself.

She walked up to the door, key in hand. He came with her. Did he expect to be asked in? He'd be disappointed. She wasn't ready for that. Wasn't likely to be, either.

His hand tightened around hers. Her heart tightened inside her chest. "Dixie, make sure you double check every lock and the windows."

"Worried about me?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Someone's up to no good."

"Offering to come in and protect me from ill wishers?"

"No." It came out a hoa.r.s.e cry.

His hand closed on hers. She clenched back. She didn't want him to go. For two cents she would ask him in. No, she wouldn't! Why not? Because she wasn't stupid. Lightheaded from the Guinness and the night air, she turned to face him.

"Christopher," she whispered, "I will be all right."

"I know. No one will bother you tonight."

"Good night, and thanks for the company." She kissed him.

Rather than the cheek she'd intended, she found his lips and stayed there. Warm, smooth and moist, his mouth opened and hers followed. She had to stand on tiptoe. She'd have climbed the wall for this. His lips tasted of wine and moonlight and his mouth offered pa.s.sion and heat. She heard a groan like an echo in the night and reached around his neck as his hands framed her head.

His hands seared trails of sensation through her hair and his tongue half-scrambled her brain. She wanted more. She wanted everything he had. She wanted the night, the world, and the morning and she found them here among the overgrown roses and the ankle-deep gra.s.s. Her heart raced. Her breathing quickened as if trying to outrace her heart. She felt heat and need and want and satiation. When he pulled back, she gasped for air. The pulse in her neck throbbing and her body screaming for more.

"You don't know what you're doing," a hoa.r.s.e, ragged whisper warned as his arms locked behind her back.

Why waste words? Kisses like his came once in a lifetime. Her fingers locked behind his neck. She stretched up and met his welcoming mouth. His arms held her. Without them she'd be a wobbling heap on the front step. His hands smoothed her back, sending racing streaks of heat up and down her spine and then lower, until need sank deep into her belly. She leaned into him, wanting the feel of his hard body against hers. Needing his touch and his lips.

He pressed her against the doorjamb. His hands cupped her upturned face. "Oh Dixie," he whispered and gently covered her face with kisses hot as a thousand honeyed brands. Her knees shook. His legs felt like iron as she stood between them. She felt him hard against her belly. She had no breath to ask him in. All she knew were kisses that turned her mind to mush and her blood to fire. His lips brushed her forehead; they dusted her eyelids and caressed her cheeks. His tongue explored one ear and sent her nerve endings into orbit. A trail of kisses down her neck wrung a groan from her lips and a sigh from her constricted lungs. A shudder of delight whipped through every fiber in her body. His lips reached the base of her neck. He nipped, her body melted against his as stars and comets collided. He caught her as her legs gave way.

"Dixie!" Anguish sounded in Christopher's voice. She had to be grinning like a fool and she didn't care. Besides, it was dark and what was a grin after what they'd just shared? "Are you all right?" He sounded worried. He shouldn't be. That kiss alone made the whole trip worthwhile.

"I will be when I touch planet Earth."

"Look here... I didn't mean it to... I hadn't planned on that." He was embarra.s.sed. He shouldn't be.

"If that's unplanned, your seduction routine must be something incredible."

"Don't joke, Dixie." He sounded hurt.

"I'm not. I meant it."

"Look here get in the house. I want you safe."

"And I'm not, with you?" The back of his hand brushed her cheek and then caressed her neck. She couldn't repress the sigh that rose as his hand brushed the base of her neck. "Get in the house, Dixie."

"Good night," she whispered.

He unlocked the door and handed her back the key. In the light of the hall, he looked drawn and wan.

"Sleep well," he said and closed the door with a dull thud.

She turned the lock and started up the wide, shallow stairs. The mahogany bed waited with its crocheted bedspread and down pillows. She was alone but not lonely. Not with the memory of a kiss like that. She'd thought stories about climaxing while kissing were wild imaginings. She'd been wrong.

A sudden weariness soaked her bones. The day had taken its toll on her. She dropped her clothes on the floor and stopped only to brush her teeth and wash her face. In the mirror, she noticed a mark on her neck. An insect bite? A mosquito maybe?

Lying between the cool linen sheets, she was all too aware of her body and the warmth between her legs. She caressed her neck, remembering. Her fingers traced the trail of his kisses. At the base of her neck, just above her shoulder, her fingers danced a memory, plucking chords of response. Without warning, her body leaped in reply and then her head sank into the soft pillows. The moon rose an hour later and Dixie slept a quiet dreamless sleep.

In the morning she saw it all differently.

Chapter Five.