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Rafe rinsed the red radicchio leaves under running water and dropped them gently into the colander on top of the arugula and cilantro. Mentally he ran through his plans for the meal. Three carefully chosen ripe avocados sat in a bowl at the far end of the counter. He would cut them in half just before serving, spoon balsamic vinegar into the hollows and sprinkle them with some coarsely grated sea salt. The pasta would be a straightforward dish using olives and tomatoes and goat cheese.

When he finished rinsing the lettuce for the salad, he went to work on the hummus. He tossed a sizable quantity of cooked garbanzo beans into the food processor and added tahini, lemon juice, and a bit of garlic.

He snapped on the lid, flipped the switch, and thought about what Dell Sadler had said while he listened to the pleasant sound of garbanzos being pulverized. Kaitlin had intended to use her nuclear option.

A killer who had thought himself in the clear for the past eight years might have reason to worry now that the old gossip was being dredged up and rehashed all over town. What if someone remembered something important after all this time? What if someone put two and two together in a way that hadn’t been done eight years ago? What if someone had seen something that night and belatedly realized that it was a clue?

A murderer who had struck once to keep his secret might be willing to strike again.

A cold feeling closed in on Rafe. The dread that he had been holding at bay all day broke through the dam, and he was suddenly dealing with a nightmarish river. The question he had not raised with Hannah, the one that had been plaguing him for hours, could no longer be avoided.

That question was horrifyingly simple: What if Winston had not been the main target last night? Maybe the attack on the dog had never been intended as a warning. Maybe the Schnauzer had been set out on the finger as bait to lure Hannah into danger. If she had arrived home as little as half an hour later, rescuing Winston would have put her in great jeopardy. The force of the incoming tide could have swept her feet out from under her, perhaps dashed her against the rocks.

He thought about how she had taken Winston into the caves because she had sensed someone watching her from the cliff path. What if the killer had been hanging around, watching to see if his plans were going to work out as he’d intended? What if he had waited on the cliff path with the intention of making certain that Hannah and Winston never made it back from the cove alive?

What if?

Rafe switched off the food processor and removed the lid. He could not afford to take any more chances, he thought as he scooped out the fragrant hummus. Tonight he would have to take drastic steps. He would never be able to sleep if he didn’t.

At six-thirty that evening, he picked up the tray of hors d’oeuvres. Winston, who had been supervising the final kitchen preparations with an expression of mingled wistfulness and lust, got to his feet.

“Here you go, mutt.” Rafe tossed him a slice of pita bread slathered in hummus. “Chef’s privilege.”

Winston gnawed happily on the tidbit as he hurried after Rafe. Together they crossed the hall toward the sunroom, where Hannah and Mitchell were sharing a glass of wine and the view of evening fog moving in over the bay.

Rafe glanced at the bowl of hummus and pita toast points arranged on the tray, double-checking the visual appeal of the hors d’oeuvres. The trickle of uneasiness he felt was disconcerting. He was usually confident of his cooking. He knew he had a keen sense of how to blend flavors into intriguing combinations and a flair for presentation. He had planned this meal with great care. He knew everything was perfect. It was the first time he had ever cooked for Mitchell, and he did not want any screwups.

Mitchell’s low growl stopped him just as he was about to enter the room.

“…Don’t you worry. Rafe will do right by you,” Mitchell said. “I’ll see to it.”

Rafe froze in the doorway. Winston stopped, too, cocking his head with an inquiring look.

“What the heck does that mean?” Hannah sounded baffled and more than a little wary. “Are you going to force him to give up his claim on this house?”

“Never could force that bullheaded boy to do anything he didn’t want to do, and I’m pretty sure he won’t give up Dreamscape. Seems to have his heart set on turning it into an inn and a restaurant.”

“He certainly does.” Hannah’s voice was clipped.

“When a Madison’s got his heart set on something,” Mitchell warned with gruff gentleness, “it isn’t easy persuading him to change course.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“He’s got the cash to make it happen. Made himself a bundle in the market, you know.” Mitchell sighed. “Always did have a head for business.”

“Apparently.” Hannah’s tone was becoming grim.

“Barring a tsunami or an earthquake or a volcanic eruption that wipes out this section of the coast, I reckon Rafe will see his plans through.” Mitchell paused. “Thing is, he’s a lot like me when it comes to going after what he wants.”

Hannah was quiet for a time. Rafe realized that his hands were clenched around the handles of the hors d’oeuvres tray. He could not seem to move through the doorway. He was waiting for something, but he was not sure what that something was.

“So what did you mean when you said you’d see to it that he would do right by me?” Hannah asked eventually.

“Lord above, woman, don’t play dumb with me. There isn’t any such thing as a dumb Harte, and we both know it. I’m talking about marriage, naturally.”

“Marriage!” Hannah’s voice rose to a shrill squeak. “Rafe and me?”

“Well, sure. What did you think I was talking about?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Hear me out, now, Hannah. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this, and I’m pretty sure I can swing it.”

“Pretty sure? Pretty sure? ”

“Okay, damn sure. Pardon my language. Not quite the same thing as making him give up Dreamscape, of course. That would be a real case of hitting my head against a brick wall. But this fear of marriage that he’s got, that’s just a case of bad nerves.”

“Nerves,” Hannah repeated in a dazed voice.

“Right. He’s convinced that Madison men have a bad time with marriage.”

“Well, you do have a history of disastrous marriages in your clan,” Hannah muttered. “And Rafe has already screwed up once.”

“Okay, so he made one little mistake.”

“Little?”

“These things happen.”

“You ought to know,” Hannah said much too sweetly. “How many times have you been married, Mr. Madison?”

“Don’t go tagging Rafe with my lousy track record. I admit that for a long time after Claudia Banner took off with the assets of Harte-Madison, I didn’t think real clearly when it came to women. Had a few problems.”

“That’s putting it mildly, from what I understand.”

Mitchell made a rude sound. “Can’t blame you for your opinion. You’ve been brought up to think the worst of me. I know that Sullivan has fed you a lot of wild stories over the years. What I’m trying to tell you is that Rafe and I are alike in a lot of ways but not in every way.”

“If you say so.”

“If that isn’t just like a Harte,” Mitchell said heatedly. “Throw a man’s mistakes back in his face and don’t bother to give him a chance to put things right. You got a lot in common with your granddad, young woman.”

“I think we’re straying from the point here.”

“Look, that divorce wasn’t Rafe’s fault. Don’t hold it against him. He learned from it.”

“Uh-huh. From what I can gather, he learned that he doesn’t want to get married again,” Hannah said dryly.

“Exactly what I’m trying to tell you,” Mitchell said quickly. “Like I said, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve figured out Rafe’s problem. He’s got some sort of phobia about marriage, see.”

“You’ve concluded that he’s afraid of marriage?” Hannah’s voice was oddly weak.

“Right.” Mitchell sounded pleased that she had grasped the point so readily. “The way some folks are scared of spiders or snakes.”

“A charming analogy.”

“I can sort of see how it happened,” Mitchell continued earnestly. “I got to admit I didn’t set a good example for Sinclair, and things trickled on down to Rafe. But I figure I can get him past it. Figure I owe him that much, since it was me who was responsible for this phobia thing in the first place.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Hannah’s voice was stronger now, infused with morbid curiosity. “Get out your shotgun and march him to the altar?”

Rafe felt as though he’d been turned into a block of solid marble.

“Is that what you want?” Mitchell asked ingenuously.

“Good grief, no . Of course not.”

Rafe winced. Did she have to sound so positively negative about the idea?

“It might take a little push from me,” Mitchell allowed reflectively. “When it comes to phobias, sometimes you’ve got to force folks to face up to ’em.”

“You just told me that force didn’t work well with Rafe.”

“I’m thinking more in terms of applying a little pressure in the right spots.”

“As it happens,” Hannah said, sweet, sharp steel in every syllable, “I’m in the business of getting people married, and I can tell you that making a marriage work is hard enough when both parties go into it enthusiastically. Any marriage forged by outside pressure would be doomed before the vows even got said.”

“You’re too young to be so pessimistic,” Mitchell complained.

“Mitchell, I’m sure you mean well, but the very last thing I want to do is marry a man who doesn’t want to get married. Are we clear on that?”

“Now don’t let Rafe’s bad nerves put you off the notion,” Mitchell replied. “It’s true the Madison men have a lousy track record when it comes to marriage, but the right woman could change all that.”

“Why do you want to change it?” Hannah demanded, thoroughly exasperated now. “What is this all about, anyway? Why do you want Rafe and me to get married?”

Still stuck in the doorway, Rafe waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Mitchell snapped, evidently out of patience himself. “It’s the only way to stop people from talking.”

“Since when did you start worrying about local gossip?” Hannah asked.

“There’s gossip and there’s gossip,” Mitchell declared. “Everyone in town is saying he’s carrying on with you because he wants to get his hands on the other half of this place. That’s a damned lie. Reminds me of the talk that went around town the night Kaitlin Sadler died. All those rumors about how he’d seduced you just to get himself an alibi. Pure garbage.”

“They certainly were,” Hannah said quietly.

“Hell, I know that.” Mitchell’s voice rang with conviction. “Rafe had nothing to do with that poor girl’s death. Madison men got problems when it comes to dealing with the opposite sex, but no Madison man has ever laid a hand on a woman in anger. No man in this family would ever assault a female, by God. And no Madison would seduce an innocent girl like you to cover his own tracks, and that’s a fact.”

A loud silence gripped the sunroom.

“I know that,” Hannah said quietly.

Rafe remembered to take a breath.

“I’m not saying Rafe might not have argued with Kaitlin Sadler,” Mitchell continued. “He’s a Madison. He’s got a temper. But if he had been with Kaitlin that night and if there had been some terrible accident, he’d have gone for help and then he’d have told the flat-out truth about what happened.”

“I know that, too,” Hannah said again. Her voice was very even. “I’m a Harte, remember? Lord knows that we’re well aware that Madisons have their faults, but no one in my family has ever accused anyone in your clan of lying.”

“Damn right,” Mitchell agreed.

Rafe glanced down at the tray of hummus and pita bread points he held. Mitchell had believed him all those years ago. The old man disapproved of just about everything he’d ever done in his life, but he had never doubted Rafe’s word about what had happened the night Kaitlin Sadler died.

Rafe discovered that he could move again. He walked into the sunroom and set the tray down on a table. He noticed that Hannah’s cheeks were flushed. She avoided his eyes. He knew she was wondering how much of the conversation he had overheard.

“The hummus looks wonderful,” she said a little too brightly.

“Thanks.” Rafe picked up the small glass pitcher of very good, very expensive olive oil that sat on the tray. He poured a liberal stream of the rich, fruity oil over the hummus.

“What’s that?” Mitchell studied the hummus with curiosity. “Some kinda bean dip?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said. “Some kind of bean dip.” He set down the pitcher of olive oil. He pulled the bottle of Chardonnay out of the ice bucket and poured himself a glass. “Glad you left some for me. I need it.”

Hannah and Mitchell gazed at him as though he were charming a snake. Both were uneasy. Neither wanted to make any sudden moves. He took his time, savoring the perfect balance of oak and fruit and the elegant finish of the wine.

When he was done, he set the glass down on the table very deliberately and looked at Hannah and Mitchell.

“I hear that wine is good for the nerves,” he said.

Two hours later, Mitchell put down his fork with a sigh of satisfaction. Just a few slivers of buttery pastry was all that remained of the kiwi tart.

“Where the hell did you learn to cook?” he asked Rafe. “Sure didn’t get it from me. The best I can do is throw a salmon steak on the grill.”

“Took some classes,” Rafe said. “But mostly I just spend a lot of time fooling around in the kitchen.”

“Well, if this inn of yours doesn’t work out, it won’t be because the food is bad.”

Rafe caught Hannah’s attention. He knew that they were both aware of what had just happened. Mitchell had bestowed his approval, not only on the food but on the entire inn project. She was probably thinking that she had just lost a lot of ground in her battle to claim his half of the inn. She was right.

“I need to talk to you about something important, Mitchell.” Rafe settled back in his chair and contemplated his grandfather across the remains of the meal. “Last night someone tried to drown Hannah’s dog.”

Mitchell blinked in astonishment. Then he looked at Winston, who was dozing peacefully on the rug beneath the table. “Who the hell would do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” Rafe admitted. “But I intend to find out.”

“What’s going on here?” Mitchell demanded.

Nobody ever accused Mitchell of being slow, Rafe thought. “I don’t know that, either, but we’ve concluded that it might be connected to what happened to Kaitlin Sadler.”

Mitchell gazed at him for a very long time. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Very. There’s some stuff I need to tell you before this conversation goes any further.” Rafe gave Mitchell a brief summary of events, including the talk with Dell Sadler.

When he had finished, Mitchell whistled softly. “You realize what you’re saying?”

“That it’s possible Kaitlin Sadler really was killed, just as Dell Sadler has always believed. And that the reason she was murdered was because she tried to blackmail someone here in Eclipse Bay.”

“Well, shoot and damn.” Mitchell sounded thoughtful now. “Yates was so damn sure it was an accident.”

“Maybe not quite so certain as he let everyone think,” Rafe said. “In addition to asking a lot of questions, he did a thorough search of Kaitlin’s house and car that night. He must have had a few suspicions.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Yates was a good cop in his time.”

Hannah sipped coffee from a small cup. She regarded Mitchell very steadily. “We need a little help.”

“From me? Now, see here, just what are you two thinking of doing?”

“We’re going to try to find out who Kaitlin was blackmailing,” Rafe said.

Mitchell frowned. “You want my advice? Don’t go poking a stick in a hole. There might be a real nasty varmint inside.”

“The problem,” Rafe said deliberately, “is that the varmint has already crawled out of the hole. I don’t think Winston was the real target last night. I have a hunch that whoever put him out there on that finger may have intended for Hannah to get caught by the incoming tide.”

Hannah snapped her head around in surprise. “Rafe, what are you saying? You never told me you thought that someone had tried to—” She broke off.

“I’m not sure that someone did try to hurt you last night. Winston may have been just a warning. But I’m not taking any chances.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. We’ll deal with that later.”

“Deal with what later?” She slammed her coffee cup down onto the saucer. “Now just one damn minute. I want an explanation.”

Rafe met Mitchell’s gaze and talked over the top of Hannah’s simmering words. “If I said to you ladies’ underwear in sizes big enough to fit a man, big high heels, Kaitlin Sadler, and some compromising videotapes that were bad enough to serve as blackmail material, what would you say?”

Mitchell’s face worked. For a moment Rafe thought that he was going to explode with outrage. But abruptly the ire metamorphosed into something else. Curiosity, or reluctant interest, Rafe decided.

“We’re talking eight years ago, aren’t we?” Mitchell said thoughtfully.

Rafe watched him. “One way or another, you’ve been connected to this town for more than fifty years. Any names come to mind?”

“No,” Mitchell said immediately. “But that’s no big surprise. I never paid much attention to other people’s sex lives. The only one that ever interested me was my own.” He paused. “But there was someone who did keep track of that kind of thing, along with every other damn secret in this town.”

Hannah groaned. “I hope you’re not going to tell us that person was Arizona Snow. It’s hopeless trying to get anything out of her. She might know some secrets, but she filters them all through her conspiracy theories.”

“Wasn’t thinking of Arizona,” Mitchell said. “I was talking about Ed Bolton. Owned the Eclipse Bay Journal for more than forty years until he sold out to Jed Steadman. Ed knew everything about everyone in this town.”

Disappointment coursed through Rafe. “I heard that Ed Bolton died four or five years ago.”

“He did,” Mitchell said in an oddly neutral voice. “Heart attack. But his widow, Bev, is still around. Lives in Portland now.”

“Do you think that Bev Bolton would know the secrets that Ed knew?” Hannah asked.

Mitchell nodded slowly. “Bev and Ed were together for a long time. Fine woman. Good marriage, from all accounts. Yeah, I reckon she’d know what Ed knew.”

Somewhere in the back of Rafe’s brain something went click .

“How do you know so much about Bev Bolton’s marriage?” he asked Mitchell.

“Bev and I get together once in a while,” Mitchell said very casually. “Talk over old times. You know how it is.”

Rafe flopped back in his chair. “Damn. How long have you and Bev Bolton been having an affair?”

Mitchell’s brows bunched and quivered in annoyance. “See here, my private life is none of your business.”

“Right. Sure. Your business.”

“Bev and I go back a long ways.” Mitchell paused. “A couple of years after Ed died, I asked her to marry me.”

Rafe was astounded. “No kidding? What happened?”

“Turned me down flat,” Mitchell admitted.

“I see.” Rafe said.

“As I was saying,” Mitchell went on, “Bev and I get together whenever I go to Portland.”

“I understand.” Rafe recalled the conversation with Gabe concerning Mitchell’s frequent trips to Portland. “And you’ve found a reason to go nearly every week for the past ten months.”

“What the hell business is it of yours? A man’s got a right to his personal life.”

Rafe started to smile. The smile turned into a grin before he could control it, and then, without warning, he was laughing so hard he feared he might fall off his chair.

Winston roused himself to thrust his nose inquiringly into Rafe’s hand. Rafe scratched him behind the ears and laughed even harder.

Hannah and Mitchell frowned.

“What’s so funny?” Hannah asked with a bewildered expression.

Mitchell glowered. “If there’s a joke here, you’d better share it.”

“The joke is on Gabe and me,” Rafe said, subduing the laughter to a wide grin. “We thought all those trips to Portland you’ve been taking for the past year were to get medical treatment. We were afraid you had some terrible, lingering disease you were hiding from us.”

“Huh.” Mitchell blinked, and then his eyes gleamed with secret amusement. “One of those trips last year was to see a doctor. But it wasn’t because I had come down with anything serious.”

“Just a checkup?” Rafe asked.

“You might say that,” Mitchell said with a benign smile. “Happy to tell you that everything is in pretty fair working order, considering the mileage I’ve put on this body.”

“Glad to hear it.” Rafe realized he felt a lot lighter.

“Unless you do me in with your cooking,” Mitchell said, “Dr. Reed tells me I’m likely to be around to pester the rest of you for quite a while yet. Now, then, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I was planning to go to Portland at the end of the week. No reason I can’t drive in with Bryce in the morning instead.”

Bryce arrived to collect Mitchell shortly after ten that night. Hannah stood on the front porch with Rafe and Winston, her arms folded, and watched the big SUV lumber off down the drive. It turned left onto the road, and the headlights disappeared into the night.

She braced herself. She had managed to relax midway through the meal, and later when the conversation had turned to the subject of Kaitlin Sadler’s death, she had almost forgotten the awkward moments she’d experienced earlier in the evening. But now that she was alone again with Rafe, she could feel the uneasiness stealing back over her.

The unsettling question returned in a rush. Just how much had Rafe overheard of Mitchell’s vow to make his grandson do right by her?

“Well, I’d call the evening a resounding success,” she said briskly. She turned away and walked back toward the open front door. “Mitchell liked your cooking, and he seems genuinely interested in helping us figure out what’s going on around here. Can’t ask for more than that.”

“As a matter of fact,” Rafe said, “there is one more thing.”

“You want help with the dishes?” She paused in the doorway. “No problem.”

He leaned against the railing and studied her in the yellow glow of the porch lights. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that. But I wasn’t referring to the dishes. I’ve been doing some thinking.”

She realized that her heart was beating much too quickly. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that cup of strong coffee after dinner. “What exactly have you been thinking about?”

“I said earlier that I think there’s a possibility that whoever stuck Winston out on the rock last night was after you, not your dog.”

She felt the world drop away from beneath her feet. “Are you saying that you think someone actually tried to kill me last night?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he just hoped there would be a convenient accident. All I know for sure is that I don’t think we should take any chances.”

She chilled. “You’re leaping to a very wild conclusion, Rafe.”

He straightened away from the railing and crossed the porch to stand in front of her. He gripped her shoulders with both hands. “Listen, I didn’t want to scare you like this, but I couldn’t come up with any other way to convince you.”

“Convince me of what?”

“That you can’t stay alone in your folks’ house any longer.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

“I’m trying to be real rational and logical here. The way I see it, we’ve got two options. You and Winston can move in with me here or else I can pack a bag and settle in at your place. Take your pick. Either one is fine by me, but I think you’d be more comfortable here. There’s more space. Hell, you can have the entire third floor to yourself if that’s what you want.”

For a split second she was on the verge of a very primitive sense of panic. It was one thing to spend the occasional night together while they charted their way through uncertain waters in a relationship that might easily founder. It was something else again to actually pack up and move in here with him. She wasn’t sure just what the nature of that difference was, but she knew that it was important. She tried to stall while she sorted out the implications.

“People will talk,” she said. It was weak. She knew it was weak even before she saw his brows lift.

“People are already talking,” he said dryly. “I doubt if the gossip will get any more exciting if you move in here. You can always say that you’re just trying to stake your claim to your half of Dreamscape.”

It was a perfectly reasonable, eminently pragmatic suggestion she told herself. And there were more bathrooms and more space here. What if someone really had intended for her to drown last night? And she did own half of this place.

“Okay,” she said, trying to sound very cool. “I’ll go back to the house and pack my things. But I think we need some ground rules here.”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that. Let me guess what you mean by ground rules. Separate bedrooms, right?”

“I think it would be best,” she said very primly. “This thing is getting very complicated.”

“And sharing a bedroom with me on a routine basis makes it even more complicated?”

She narrowed her eyes. “An occasional night of…of—”

“Wild passion?” he offered helpfully.

She stiffened. “As I was saying, an occasional night together is one thing. But sharing a bedroom feels more like…like—”

“Like a commitment?” he supplied with an air of amusement.

“Yes,” she shot back, goaded. “Like a commitment. Which, I might add, neither of us has made.”

“The subject has not arisen.”

“That’s not the point.” She could hear the waspish edge in her own voice. “If I’m going to stay here, it will be on my terms, and that means separate bedrooms.”

He moved his hand in a suspiciously careless manner. “Whatever you say. I’ll drive you back to your place and give you a hand with the packing.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s the least I can do if you’re going to help me with the dishes.”

Suspicion flickered briefly. He was being entirely too cooperative, she thought. But when she searched his gaze she saw nothing but mocking amusement.

Much later that night she awoke quite suddenly, aware that something was wrong. She stared at the ceiling for a while before she realized that she could not feel Winston’s familiar warmth at her feet.

There was a soft whine in the darkness. Alarm zapped through her. She sat straight up in bed and switched on the light.

Winston was sitting in front of the bedroom door. He looked impatient to get out.

“Oh, damn.” She shoved aside the covers, grabbed her robe, and hurried toward the door. “What is it? Is there someone out there watching us here at Dreamscape? I thought we left that problem behind when we moved out of the cottage.”

Winston scratched politely at the base of the door. She flung it open for him. He trotted out into the unlit hall. She followed quickly.

On the second floor landing she paused. “We should wake Rafe. He’ll want to be involved in this, whatever it is.”

Winston ignored her. He trotted down the next flight of stairs to the first floor and disappeared. Hannah peered over the railing to look for him and saw a glow coming from the kitchen. Rafe was already awake.

She hurried downstairs, crossed the hall, and walked into the kitchen. She stopped when she saw Rafe standing in front of the counter with a knife in his hand. He had taken the time to pull on a pair of jeans, but that was all. His sleek shoulders gleamed in the kitchen light. His bare feet looked strong and supple and very sexy.

There was a chunk of leftover feta cheese on the plate that sat on the drainboard. Winston was positioned at Rafe’s feet, looking expectant.

Hannah came to a halt in the doorway. “What’s going on here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Rafe said. He dropped a bit of the cheese into Winston’s waiting jaws. “Came down here to get a bite to eat.” He held up the knife. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.” She was torn between the urge to let him drop a bite of cheese into her mouth and the knowledge that if she had any sense she would hurry back upstairs. As was so often the case when she was caught between two equally opposing forces, she did nothing. “I was afraid that Winston had heard a prowler outside.”

“Nope.” Rafe ate some more cheese. “He must have heard me come downstairs a few minutes ago. How about you? Sleeping okay up there on the third floor?”

“I was sleeping just fine until Winston decided to follow you down here.”

Rafe studied her with an unreadable expression as he munched cheese. “Hey, that’s just great. Lot of people don’t sleep well in a strange environment, you know? Sometimes they just lay there staring at the ceiling and think about things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah.” He sliced off another bit of cheese. “Things.”

“Right. Things.” The dangerously enigmatic shimmer in his eyes was starting to worry her. It was definitely time to retreat, she decided. She gripped the lapels of her robe and took a step back. “Well, as long as everything is okay down here, I’ll go back to bed.”

“You ever do that, Hannah? Just lie in bed and think about things?”

She hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“I’ve been doing it a lot lately.”

“Is that so?”

He put some cheese on a cracker and then popped the whole morsel into his mouth. “Aren’t you going to ask me what kind of things I think about?”

She took another wary step back, not trusting his odd mood. “None of my business,” she said crisply.

“Don’t be so sure of that. Tonight, for instance, one of the things I was thinking about was who, besides Bev Bolton, might be able to give us a few insights into the bedroom lives of our friends and neighbors here in Eclipse Bay. I had an idea.”

She folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the doorjamb. “Don’t tell me one of your buddies is the local Peeping Tom?”

“He would be highly offended at the suggestion. I always had the impression that he sees himself as a lone crusader for freedom, privacy, and the First Amendment.”

“I assume we are not talking about the head of the public library.”

“Nope.” Rafe ate more cheese. “I’m going to talk to my potential informant tomorrow while Mitchell is in Portland.”

“I’m probably going to regret this, but I want to be there when you talk to this person.” She paused delicately. “Who is it we’re going to see?”

“Virgil Nash.”

She winced. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can talk to him without someone finding out.”

“Doubt it. Still want to come with me?”

She decided to be philosophical about the situation. “Ah, well. It’s not as if I have anything but a few tattered threads left of my reputation here in Eclipse Bay, anyway. What do I care if the whole town finds out that I was seen entering the local porn dealer’s shop with you?”

“That’s the spirit,” Rafe said with enthusiasm. “Virgil’s Adult Books and Video Arcade is just the kind of place folks would expect me to take a nice girl like you.”

“Nobody ever said you didn’t know how to show a lady a good time.” She turned away to seek the safety of the third floor.

“I was thinking about something else besides Virgil Nash,” Rafe continued in a conversational tone. “I also thought a lot about phobias.”

Her mouth went dry. So he had overheard her awkward conversation with Mitchell. An ominous sensation rolled through her. She turned very slowly in the doorway to face him.

“I was afraid of that,” she said.

“You know, my grandfather may be right. Perhaps the best way to get over a phobia is to confront it head-on. Just do it, you know?”

She cleared her throat. “I’m no expert on phobias, but it seems to me that that approach would be likely to trigger severe panic attacks.”

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

“I suggest you do think about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed.”

“Hannah?”

She looked back unwillingly. “Now what?”

“If I’m the one with the phobia, how come you’re the one who looks panicked?”

“Good night, Rafe.” She fled toward the stairs.

Winston did not return to the third-floor bedroom right away. When he finally did come back upstairs, his fur was cool and damp. Hannah realized that Rafe had taken him outside for a late-night walk.

“What did you two talk about out there?” she whispered.

Winston did not reply. He settled into position at the foot of the bed and promptly went to sleep.

“Guys always stick together.”

She tried to go back to sleep. It was hard work. For a long time, she just stared at the ceiling and thought about things.