When he eased back, gently set her away, her vision was blurred, her mind blank.

“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” he said.

“Uh.” She couldn’t quite remember how to form words.

He gave her hair a friendly tug. “Better get inside before you freeze.”

“Ah.” She gave up, turned blindly and walked into the door.

“Let me get that for you.” He spoke quietly, quite soberly, and turned the knob, nudged the door open.

“Good night, Ripley.”

“Mmm.”

She stepped inside, then had no choice but to lean back against the door he closed until she got her bearings and her breath back.

Harmless? Had she actually thought he was harmless?

She managed to stagger a few steps, then lowered herself to the bottom tread of the staircase. She would just wait until her legs were back under her, she decided, before she tried to make it upstairs to her room.

* * *

January8 ,2002

9–10 P . M . EST

I’ll transcribe my notes and the tape from my initial interview with Ripley Todd shortly. I didn’t make as much progress with her as I’d hoped. However, there were two specific incidents that will be set down in more detail in my official log. My personal reaction, however, belongs here. Ripley’s temperament and her protective attitude toward her sister-in-law, Nell Todd (data on Nell Todd cross-referenced under her name), can and will overpower her reluctance to discuss her gift. Or, as I learned tonight, to demonstrate that gift. It’s my impression that her warning to me when I mentioned Nell was instinctive, and the result was unplanned. Harming me was a by-product rather than a goal. The burns on my wrist, from visual examination, matched the grip and shape of her fingers. It wasn’t a flash burn, but more a steady increase in heat. As you might experience when turning up a flame.

Her physical changes during this phenomenon were a dilation of pupils, a flush under the skin. Her anger turned inward immediately.

I believe this lack of control, and a fear of what she is capable of, are what cause her reluctance to discuss, and explore, the nature of her talents.

She’s an interesting woman, one obviously close toher family. In all areas but this, I sense and observe a complete confidence, an ease of self.

She’s beautiful when she smiles.

He stopped, nearly crossed out his last observation. It wasn’t even accurate. She wasn’t beautiful—attractive, intriguing, but not beautiful.

Still, he reminded himself, the journal was for impressions. The thought that she was beautiful must have been in his mind for him to note it down. So it stayed.

The second incident occurred just before we left, and was, I have no doubt, more difficult for her. The fact that she would remove the burns, deliberately demonstrate her ability, indicates a strong sense of right and wrong. That, as with her instinct to protect who and what she loves, overcomes her need to block off her gift.

I hope, as time goes on, to discover what event or events influenced her to deny or abjure her powers.

I need to see her again, to verify my suppositions.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered. If he couldn’t be honest here, where?

I want to see her again, on a completely personal level. I’ve enjoyed being with her, even when she’s rude and insulting. It worries me, a bit, that I might enjoy being with her because she’s rude and insulting. Beyond that, there’s a strong sexual attraction. Unlike the sheer admiration for beauty I felt on firstmeeting Mia Devlin—and the completely natural and human fantasy that resulted—this is more basic, and therefore, more compelling. I want, on one level, to carefully take this complex woman apart, piece by piece, and understand what she is. On the other, I just want to . . .

Nope, Mac decided, even a personal journal needed some censoring. He couldn’t write down just what he wanted to do with Ripley Todd.

I find myself wondering what it would be like to be her lover.

There, he thought, that was acceptable. No point in going into graphic detail. I drove her home tonight, as the temperatures are hovering at zero Fahrenheit. The fact that she had walked here, and would have walked home under such conditions, demonstrates her stubbornness as well as her independence. She was, very obviously, amused at simple courtesies such as helping her with her coat, holding the door. Not insulted, but amused, which I found disarming.

I wouldn’t have kissed her if she hadn’t brought it up. I certainly had no intention of doing so at this early stage of our relationship. Her response was unexpected and. . . arousing. She’s a strong woman, body and mind, and to feel her going almost limp . . .

He had to stop, take a breath, guzzle some of the water he’d poured. To feel the reaction of her body to mine, and the heat . . . Knowing the chemical and biological causes for the increase of body heat during such an event doesn’t diminish the wonder of the experience. I can still taste her—strong again, a strong and sharp flavor. And hear the kind of purr she made down in her throat. My legs went weak, and when her arms came around my neck, it was like being surrounded by her. Another minute—another instant, and I would have forgotten that we were standing on an open porch on a bitterly cold night. But since I had—despite her teasing—initiated the embrace, it was my responsibility. At least I had the satisfaction of seeing her face, and the dazed, dreamy expression in her eyes. And of watching her walk straight into the door.

That was a good one.

Of course, I nearly ran off the road twice coming back to the cottage—and got lost, but that part isn’t atypical without the stimuli.

Yes, I want to see her again, on a number of levels. And I don’t expect to sleep particularly well

tonight.

Five

N ell iced the last batch of cinnamon buns and bided her time. She had an hour before she needed to load up her car with the café stock. Today’s soup was porcini mushroom, and it was already sealed in the kettle. The three salad selections were prepared, the muffins baked. She’d finished the napoleons. She’d been up and at it since five-thirty.

Diego, her sleek gray cat, was curled on one of the kitchen chairs, watching her. Lucy, the big black Lab, sprawled in a corner, watching Diego. They had come to terms—Diego’s terms—and lived together in an acceptable state of distrust and suspicion.

While her cookies baked, Nell kept the radio on low and waited.

When Ripley entered, bleary-eyed, wearing the sweatpants and football jersey she’d slept in, Nell simply held out a mug of coffee.