“It also killed the cat,” Ripley said with a glimmer of her former sneer. “And I don’t call bopping around the globe playing witch-hunter science.”

“You know, that’s just what my father says.” He spoke cheerfully as he rose to take their soup bowls to the sink.

“Your father sounds like a sensible man.”

“Oh, he is that. I’m a constant disappointment to him. No, that’s unfair,” Mac decided as he came back, topped off their wine. “I’m more a puzzle, and he’s sure some of the pieces have gone missing. So. Tell me about your parents.”

“They’re retired. My father was sheriff before Zack, my mother was a CPA. They took their life on the road a while back, in a big Winnebago.”

“Hitting the national parks.”

“That, and whatever. They’re having the time of their lives. Like a couple of kids on an endless spring break.”

It wasn’t what she said so much as how she said it that told him the Todd family was tight and happy. Her problem with her power didn’t stem from family conflict. He was sure of that.

“You and your brother work together.”

“Obviously.”

There was no doubt about it, she was back. “I met him the other day. You’re not much like him.” He glanced up from his notes. “Except for the eyes.”

“Zack got all the nice-guy genes in the family. There weren’t any left over for me.”

“You were there when he was injured while arresting Evan Remington.”

Her face went very still again. “Do you want to read the police report?”

“Actually, I have. It must’ve been a rough night.” And let’s just circle around that for now, he decided.

“Do you like being a cop?”

“I don’t do things I don’t like.”

“Lucky you. Why The Maltese Falcon ?”

“Huh?”

“I was wondering why you picked that instead of, say, Casablanca ?”

Ripley shook her head, adjusted her thoughts. “I don’t know. Because I figure Bergman should’ve told Bogart, ‘Paris, my butt’ instead of getting on the plane. In Falcon he did the job. He turned Astor over. That was justice.”

“I always figured Ilsa and Rick got together after the war, and Sam Spade . . . Well, he just kept being Sam Spade. What kind of music do you like?”

“What?”

“Music. You said you like working out to music.”

“What does that have to do with your project?”

“You said you didn’t want to be involved in my work. We might as well pass the rest of the time getting to know each other.”

She blew out a breath, sipped her wine. “You’re a really strange individual.”

“All right, then, enough about you. Let’s talk about me.” He sat back and, when her face blurred out of focus, remembered to remove his reading glasses. “I’m thirty-three, embarrassingly rich. The second son of the New York Bookes. Real estate. The MacAllister branch—we have that surname as first name in common—they’re corporate law. I got interested in preternatural subjects when I was a kid. The history, variations, the effect on cultures and societies. My interest caused my family to seek the advice of a psychologist, who assured them this was just a form of rebellion.”

“They took you to a shrink because you liked spooky?”

“When you’re a fourteen-year-old college freshman, someone’s always calling the shrink.”

“Fourteen?” She pursed her lips. “That had to be strange.”

“Well, it was pretty hard to get a date, let me tell you.” The slight twitching of her lips pleased him. “I channeled the energy from what would have been those first sexual rumbles into study and my personal interest.”

“So you got off on books and research.”

“In a manner of speaking. By the time I was eighteen, my parents had given up on trying to box me into one of the family firms. Then I hit twenty-one and came into the first lap of my trust fund and could do what I wanted.”

She angled her head. She was interested now, couldn’t help herself. “Did you ever get a date?”

“A couple. I know what it is to be pushed in a direction you don’t want to go, or one you’re not ready for. People say they know what’s best for you. Maybe sometimes it’s true. But it doesn’t matter if they keep pushing until they take your choices away.”

“Is that why you’re letting me off the hook tonight?”

“That’s one reason. Another is because you’re going to change your mind. Don’t get steamed,” he said quickly when her mouth thinned. “When I first came here, I thought it would be Mia I needed to work with. But it’s you—at least primarily it’s you.”

“Why?”

“That’s something I’d like to find out. Meanwhile, you’ve paid off your bet. I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve got plenty of time to waste. I’ll get your coat.”

“And I don’t need you to drive me home.”

“We can arm-wrestle over that,” he called back. “But I’m not letting you walk home in the dark, in subzero temperatures.”

“You can’t drive me home. You didn’t dig out your car.”

“So I’ll dig it out, then drive you home. Five minutes.”

She’d have argued with that, but the front door slammed and she was left stewing in the house alone. Curious, she eased open the back door, stood shivering while she watched him attack the snow around the Rover with a shovel. She had to admit those muscles she’d seen that morning in the gym weren’t just for show. It appeared that Dr. Booke knew how to put his back into the job at hand. Still, he wasn’t particularly thorough. She nearly called out to say so when it occurred to her that any comment she made would prove she’d been interested enough to watch him. Instead she shut the door and rubbed the warmth back into her hands and arms.

When the front door slammed again, and she heard him stomping his feet, she was leaning against the kitchen counter, looking bored.

“Bitching cold out there,” he called back. “Where did I put your stuff?”