She stepped up, held out a hand. "Quinn Black, thanks for meeting with me, Mr. Hawkins."

"Cal." He took her hand, shook it, then held it as he gestured to the door. "Let's get you out of the wind."

They stepped directly into a living room that managed to be cozy and male at the same time. The generous sofa faced the big front windows, and the chairs looked as though they'd allow an ass to sink right in. Tables and lamps probably weren't antiques, but looked to be something a grandmother might have passed down when she got the urge to redecorate her own place.

There was even a little stone fireplace with the requisite large mutt sprawled sleeping in front of it.

"Let me take your coat."

"Is your dog in a coma?" Quinn asked when the dog didn't move a muscle.

"No. Lump leads an active and demanding internal life that requires long periods of rest."

"I see."

"Want some coffee?"

"That'd be great. So would the bathroom. Long drive."

"First right."

"Thanks."

She closed herself into a small, spotlessly clean powder room as much to pull herself back together from a couple of psychic shocks as to pee.

"Okay, Quinn," she whispered. "Here we go."

CHAPTER Four

HE'D READ HER WORK; HE'D STUDIED HER AUTHORphotos and used Google to get some background, to read her interviews. Cal wasn't one to agree to talk to any sort of writer, journalist, reporter, Internet blogger about the Hollow, himself, or much of anything else without doing a thorough check.

He'd found her books and articles entertaining. He'd enjoyed her obvious affection for small towns, had been intrigued by her interest and treatment of lore, legend, and things that went bump in the night.

He liked the fact that she still wrote the occasional article for the magazine that had given her a break when she'd still been in college. It spoke of loyalty.

He hadn't been disappointed that her author photo had shown her to be a looker, with a sexy tumble of honey blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the hint of a fairly adorable overbite.

The photo hadn't come close.

She probably wasn't beautiful, he thought as he poured coffee. He'd have to get another look when, hopefully, his brain wouldn't go to fuzz, then decide about that.

What he did know, unquestionably, was she just plain radiated energy and-to his fuzzed brain-sex.

But maybe that was because she was built, another thing the photo hadn't gotten across. The lady had some truly excellent curves.

And it wasn't as if he hadn't seen curves on a woman before or, in fact, seen his share of naked female curves alive and in person. So why was he standing in his own kitchen frazzled because an attractive, fully dressed woman was in his house? For professional purposes.

"Jesus, grow up, Hawkins."

"Sorry?"

He actually jumped. She was in the kitchen, a few steps behind him, smiling that million-watt smile.

"Were you talking to yourself? I do that, too. Why do people think we're crazy?"

"Because they want to suck us into talking to them."

"You're probably right." Quinn shoved back that long spill of blond.

Cal saw he was right. She wasn't beautiful. The top-heavy mouth, the slightly crooked nose, the oversized eyes weren't elements of traditional beauty. He couldn't label her pretty, either. It was too simple and sweet a word. Cute didn't do it.

All he could think of washot , but that might have been his brain blurring again.

"I didn't ask how you take your coffee."

"Oh. I don't suppose you have two percent milk."

"I often wonder why anybody does."

With an easy laugh that shot straight to his bloodstream, she wandered over to study the view outside the glass doors that led-as she'd suspected-to the rear portion of the circling deck. "Which also means you probably don't have any fake sugar. Those little pink, blue, or yellow packets?"

"Fresh out. I could offer you actual milk and actual sugar."

"You could." And hadn't she eaten an apple like a good girl? "And I could accept. Let me ask you something else, just to satisfy my curiosity. Is your house always so clean and tidy, or did you do all this just for me?"

He got out the milk. "Tidy's a girlie word. I prefer the termorganized . I like organization. Besides." He offered her a spoon for the sugar bowl. "My mother could-and does-drop by unexpectedly. If my house wasn't clean, she'd ground me."

"If I don't call my mother once a week, she assumes I've been hacked to death by an ax murderer." Quinn held herself to one scant spoon of sugar. "It's nice, isn't it? Those long and elastic family ties."

"I like them. Why don't we go sit in the living room by the fire?"

"Perfect. So, how long have you lived here? In this particular house," she added as they carried their mugs out of the kitchen.

"A couple of years."

"Not much for neighbors?"

"Neighbors are fine, and I spend a lot of time in town. I like the quiet now and then."

"People do. I do myself, now and again." She took one of the living room chairs, settled back. "I guess I'm surprised other people haven't had the same idea as you, and plugged in a few more houses around here."

"There was talk of it a couple of times. Never panned out."

He's being cagey, Quinn decided. "Because?"