“Check the attitude.” His voice wasn’t mild and easygoing now, but hot as a bullet. It had her eyeing him speculatively. “Have you ever seen frostbite?”

“As a matter of fact—hey!” She yanked back when he pulled off her gloves to examine her fingers.

“I was with a group inNepal a few years ago. One of the students got careless.” Ignoring her resistance, he wiggled her fingers. “He lost two of these.”

“I’m not careless.”

“Okay. Let me take your coat.”

She shrugged out of it, the neck scarf, the wool cap, the insulated vest, piling each layer she peeled off into his arms. “I guess you’re not careless.” Then he glanced around, looking for a place to dump everything.

She couldn’t help it—she grinned. “The floor’s good enough.”

“No, we’ll just . . . the bed,” he remembered, and carted them out down the narrow path he’d made to the bedroom.

“Are you afraid of the dark?” she called out.

“Huh?”

“You’ve got every light on in this place.”

“I do?” He came out again. “I’m always forgetting to turn things off. I bought a quart of Nell’s soup today, I just nuked it. Do you want some?” He waited a beat, reading her perfectly. “Eating’s off the clock.”

“I’m not hungry,” she quickly responded, and felt a good sulk coming on.

“Okay, I’ll have it later so we can get started. Where did I put . . .” He patted his pockets, circled. “Oh, yeah.” And found his mini-recorder beside a monitor. “I want to get some basic personal data first, so we’ll just—”

He broke off again, brow furrowed. He’d piled old files, clippings, research books, photographs, and other tools on the sofa. Even the floor didn’t offer enough room for two people to sit.

“Tell you what, we’ll do this part in the kitchen.”

She shrugged her shoulders, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and followed him back. “I’m going to go ahead and eat, since it’s here.” He took down a bowl, then decided to take pity on her. “Why don’t you change your mind so I don’t feel rude eating in front of you?”

“Fine. Got a beer?”

“No, sorry. Got a pretty decent Merlot, though.”

“That’ll work.” She stood while he dumped soup in bowls, poured wine.

“Have a seat.”

He settled down across from her, got up immediately. “Damn it, one more minute. Go ahead and eat.”

Ripley picked up her spoon as he hurried back out. She heard muttering, papers rattling, and a small crash as something hit the floor.

He came back with a spiral notebook, two pencils, and a pair of metal-framed glasses. The minute he slipped them on, her stomach clutched.

Oh, man, she thought, an incredibly sexy geek.

“I’m going to take notes,” he explained. “Back up the tape. How’s the soup?”

“It’s Nell’s,” she said simply.

“Yeah.” He began to eat. “She saved my life the other night when I lost track of time. I found a container of chowder in the freezer and nearly broke down and cried. Your brother’s a lucky man. I met him yesterday.”

“So he said.” She began to relax, thinking that as long as he made small talk, the clock was ticking.

“They’re great together.”

“I got that impression. How old are you?”

“What?”

“Your age—for the record.”

“I don’t know what the hell that has to do with anything. I turned thirty last month.”

“What day?”

“Fourteenth.”

“Sagittarius. You know the time of birth?”

“I wasn’t paying a lot of attention at the time.” She picked up her wine. “I think my mother said it was about eight at night, after sixteen hours of sweating in the Valley of the Shadow and so on. Why do you need that?”

“I’ll input the data and run an astrological chart. Give you a copy if you want.”

“That stuff’s totally bogus.”

“You’d be surprised. You were born on the island?”

“Yeah, at home—doctor and midwife in attendance.”

“Have you ever experienced any paranormal activity?”

She didn’t mind lying, but she hated the fact that it always made her throat feel tight. “Why would I?”

“Do you remember your dreams?”

“Sure. I had a doozy the other night about Harrison Ford, a peacock feather, and a bottle of canola oil. What do you think that means?”

“Since a cigar is sometimes just a cigar, sexual fantasies are sometimes just about sex. Do you dream in color?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Always?”

She moved her shoulders. “Black and white’s for Bogart movies and art photography.”

“Are your dreams ever prophetic?”

She nearly answered in the affirmative before she caught herself. “So far Harry and I haven’t gotten it on. But I have hope.”

He switched tactics. “Got any hobbies?”

“Hobbies? You mean like . . . quilting or birdwatching? No.”

“What do you do with your free time?”

“I don’t know.” She nearly squirmed before she caught herself. “Stuff. TV, movies. I do some sailing.”

“Bogart movies? Top pick?”

“Maltese Falcon. ”

“What do you sail?”

“Zack’s little day cruiser.” She tapped her fingers on the table, let her mind drift. “I think I’m going to get my own, though.”

“Nothing like a day on the water. When did you realize you had power?”

“It was never a . . .” She straightened, carefully wiped all expression off her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do, but we can let that slide for the moment if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t understand the question.”

He set his pencil down, nudged the bowl of soup aside, and looked directly at her. “Let’s put it this way, then. When did you realize you were a witch?”