"I hope you'll give me all the details, if you are."

Regan rubbed a hand over her face, told herself to be rational.

But it was Rebecca, she thought, who was always rational. "You may have an affair, with Shane. That's Shane MacKade. My brother-in-law."

"Um-hmm..." Unable to resist, Rebecca skimmed a fingertip over Jason's soft, round cheek. "I'm still considering it. But he's very attractive, and, I'm sure, very skilled." The fingertip wasn't enough, so she bent to touch her lips lightly to the same lovely spot. "If I'm going to have an affair, it should be with someone I like, respect and have some affection for, don't you agree?"

"Well, yes, in the general scheme of things, but..."

Rebecca straightened and grinned. "And if he's gorgeous and clever in bed, so much the better. A terrific face and body aren't everything, of course, but they are a nice bonus. I'd theorize that the stronger the physical attraction, the better the s.e.x."

The coffeepot was gurgling away before Regan found the words.

"Rebecca, making love with a man isn't an experiment, or a science project." "In a way it is." Then she laughed and crossed over to take Regan by the shoulders. There seemed to be no way to explain, even to Regan, what it was like to feel this way. Free and able and attractive. "Stop worrying about me, Mama. I'm all grown up now."

"Yes, obviously."

"I want to explore possibilities, Regan. I've done what I was told, what was expected of me, for so long. Forever. I need to do what I want." With a little sigh, she took a turn around the kitchen.

"That's what this is all about. Why do you think I chose the paranormal as a hobby? A first-year psych student could figure it out. All of my life has been so abnormal, and at the same time so tediously normal. / was abnormal."

"That's not true." Regan's voice was sharp and annoyed, and made Rebecca smile.

"You always did stand up for me, even against myself. But it is true. It's not normal for a seven-year-old to do calculus, Regan, or to be able to discuss the political ramifications of the Crimean War with historians, in French. I'm not even sure what normal behavior is for a seven-year-old, except in theory, because I never was one."

Before Regan could speak, she shook her head and hurried on. "I was pushed into everything so young. You can't know what it's like to go to school year-round, year after year. Even when I was at home, there were tutors and projects, a.s.signments, and before I knew it my whole life was study, work, lecture." She lifted her hands, let them fall. "Earn a degree, earn another, then go home alone."

"I didn't know you were so unhappy," Regan murmured. "I've been miserable all my life." Rebecca closed her eyes. "Oh, that sounds so pathetic. It's not fair, I suppose. I've had tremendous advantages. Education, money, respect, opportunities. But advantages can trap you, Regan. Just as disadvantages can. It seems petty to complain about them, but I am. Now I'm doing something about it, finally." With a kind of triumph, she drew in a deep, greedy breath. "I'm doing something no one expects from me, something to give my stuffy, straight-arrow colleagues a marvelous chance to gossip. And something that fascinates me."

"I'm all for it." But Regan was worried as she opened cupboards for mugs. "I think it's wonderful that you've taken time for yourself, that you have an interest in something most people consider out of the ordinary."

Rebecca accepted the mug of coffee. "But?"

"But Shane doesn't come under the heading of Hobby. He's the sweetest man I know, but he could hurt you."

Rebecca mulled it over as she sipped. "It's a possibility. But even that would be an experience. I've never been close enough to a man to be hurt by one."

She moved over to the window to look out. She could see him, in the field, riding a tractor. Just as she'd imagined. No, it wasn't a tractor, she remembered. A baler. He'd be making hay.

"I love looking at him," she murmured.

"None of them are hard on the eyes," Regan commented as she joined Rebecca at the window. "And none of them are easy on the heart." She laid a hand on Rebecca's shoulder. "Just becareful."

But Rebecca felt she'd been careful too long already.

She couldn't even cook. Shane had never known anyone who was incapable of doing more at a stove than heating up a can of soup. And even that, for Rebecca, was a project of momentous proportions.

He didn't mind her being there. He'd talked himself into that. He liked her company, was certain he would eventually charm her into bed, but he hated her reasons for moving in.

Her equipment was everywhere-in the kitchen, the living room, in the guest room. He couldn't walk through his own house without facing a camera.

It baffled him that an obviously intelligent woman actually believed she was going to take videos of ghosts.

Still, there were some advantages. If he cooked, she cheerfully did the clearing-up. And it wasn't a hardship to come in from the fields or the barn and find her at the kitchen table, making her notes on her little laptop computer.

She claimed she felt most at home in the kitchen- though she didn't know a skillet from a saucepan-so she spent most of her time there.

He'd gotten through the first night, though it was true that he'd done a great deal of tossing and turning at the idea that she was just down the hall. And if he'd been gritty-eyed and cranky the next morning, he'd worked it off by the time he finished the milking and came in to cook breakfast. And she came down for breakfast, he reflected. Though she didn't eat much-barely, in his opinion, enough to sustain life.

But she drank coffee, shared the morning paper with him, asked questions. Lord, the woman was full of questions.

Still, it was pleasant to have company over the first meal of the day. Someone who looked good, smelled good, had something to say for herself. The problem was, he found himself thinking about how she had looked, had smelled, what she had said, when he went out to work.

He couldn't remember another woman hanging in his mind quite so long, or quite so strongly. That was something that could worry a man, if he let it.

Shane MacKade didn't like to worry. And he wasn't used to thinking about a woman who didn't seem to be giving him the same amount of attention.

It was simply a matter of adjustment-or so he told himself. She was a guest in his home now, and a man didn't take advantage of a guest. Which was why he wanted her out again as soon as possible-so that he could.

And if he just didn't think overmuch about how pretty she looked, tapping away at her keyboard, those little round gla.s.ses perched on her nose, the eyes behind them dark with concentration, her long, narrow feet crossed neatly at the ankles, he didn't suffer.

But, d.a.m.n it, how was he supposed tonot think about it?

When he banged a pot for the third time, Rebecca tipped down her gla.s.ses and peered at him over them. "Shane, I don't want you to feel that you have to cook for me." "You're not going to do it," he muttered.

"I can dial the telephone. Why don't I order something and have it delivered?"

He turned then, his eyes bland. "You're not in New York now, sweetie. n.o.body delivers out here."

"Oh." She let out a little sigh, took off her gla.s.ses. There was tension radiating from him. Then again, there was always something radiating from him. He was the most... alive, she decided... man she'd ever come across.

And right now he seemed terribly tense. Probably a cow problem. Sympathetic, she rose to go over and rub his shoulders.

"You've had a rough one. It must be tiring working in the fields like that, hours on end, then dealing with the stock."

"It's easier on a decent night's sleep," he said through gritted teeth. Her bony hands were only tensing muscles that already ached.

"You're awfully tight. Why don't you sit down? I'll open a can of something, make sandwiches."

"I don't want a sandwich."

"It's the best I can do."

He spun around, caught her. "I want you."

Her heart lurched, did a quick, nervous jig in her throat before she managed to swallow it. "Yes, I believe we've established that." She didn't gulp audibly, didn't tremble noticeably. Thetemper in his eyes was easier to face than the pa.s.sion beneath it.

"You also agreed to a professional atmosphere."

"I know what I agreed to." His eyes, green and stormy, bored into hers. "I don't have to like it."

"No, you don't. Has it occurred to you that you're angry because I'm not reacting in the manner you're accustomed to having women react?"

"We're not talking about women. We're talking about you. You and me, here and now."

"We're talking about s.e.x," she answered, and gave his arms a squeeze before backing away. "And I'm considering it."

"Considering it?" He could have throttled her. "What, like considering whether to have chicken or fish for dinner? n.o.body's that cold-blooded."

"It's sensible. Deal with it." With a jerk of her shoulder, she went back to the table and sat.

Deal with it? he thought, boiling over. "Is that right? So you'll let me know when you've finished considering and come to a conclusion?"

"You'll be the first," she told him, and slipped on her gla.s.ses.

He battled back temper. It was a hard war to win, for a MacKade. Cold-blooded reason was what she understood, he decided. So he'd give it to her, and hoped she choked on it.

"You know, now that I'm considering, it occurs to me that you may be a little cool for my taste, and definitely bony. I like awanner, softer sort."

She felt her jaw clench, then deliberately relaxed it. "A good try, farm boy. Uninterest, insult and challenge. I'm sure it works a good percentage of the time." She made herself smile at him.

"But you're going to have to do better with me."

"Right now, I'll do better without you." Since he obviously wasn't going to win where he was, he strode to the door and out.

All he needed was to decide which one of his brothers to go pick a fight with.

Rebecca let out a long breath and took her gla.s.ses off so that she could rub her hands over her face. That, she thought, had been a close one. How could she have known that the barely controlled fury, the frazzled desire, that absolutely innate arrogance of his, would be so exciting, so endearing?

She'd almost given in. The instant he whirled around and grabbed her, she might have thrown any lingering doubts to the winds.

But...

There would have been no way to control any part of the situation, with him in that volatile mood. She would have been taken. And as glorious as that sounded in theory, she was afraid of the fact.

If he only knew she was waiting now only to settle her own nerves and to be certain he was calm. She knew that when Shane was calm, and amused, he would be a delightful and tender lover.

Edgy and needy, he'd be demanding, impatient.

So they would both wait until the moment was right.

She sat back, her eyes closed. It was peaceful now, with thatwhirlwind Shane could create around him gone. She missed it, a little, even as she reveled in the quiet. She found it so easy to relax here, in this room, in this house. Even the creak of the boards settling at night was comforting.

And the smell of wood smoke and meat cooking, the hint of cinnamon and apple, the m.u.f.fled crackle of the fire behind the door of the stove. Such things made home home, after all___ She froze, her eyes still closed, her body as tense as a stretched wire. Nothing was cooking, so why could she smell it? There was no fire, so why could she hear it?

Slowly she opened her eyes. For a moment, the room seemed to waver and her vision dimmed. A cast-iron stove, a fire in the raised hearth. Pies cooling on the wide windowsill, and the sun streaming in.

A blink, and it was gone. Tile and wood, the hum of the refrigerator.

Yet the scents remained, clear, strong. Like an echo deep in her mind, she thought she heard a baby's fretful crying.

"All right, Rebecca," she said shakily. "You wanted it. Looks like you've got it."

Rising quickly, she darted into the living room. Amid the cozy chairs, the rocker, the books stacked haphazardly on shelves, was equipment. There'd been no temperature drop registered, but energy was crackling. She didn't need a gauge to tell her, she could feel it. Electricity singing along her skin, bringing the hair on the nape of her neck stiffly up.

She wasn't alone. The baby was crying. With a hand pressed to her mouth, she stared at her recorder. Would she hear that piping wail on tape when she played it back? Upstairs, one of the bedroom doors closed quietly. She could hear the squeak and roll of a rocker over wood, and the crying died.

The baby's being rocked, she thought, almost giddy with delight.

Soothed, loved. That was what she felt through all the energy, all the excitement. Love, deep, abiding and rich. The house was alive with it.

Tears trailed down her cheeks as the warmth of it enfolded her.

When it was quiet again, when she was alone again, she picked up the recorder and reported. Back at her laptop, she detailed every instant of the event and copied it to disk.

Then she got a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and celebrated her success.

It was nearly midnight when Shane got back, and she was right where he'd left her. He'd vented most of his temper. No one had been much interested in a fight, but Devin had managed to joke him out of his foul mood.

He was afraid it might come back now that he was faced with her, sitting there smiling, her hair tousled from her hands, her gla.s.ses slipping down her nose.

"Don't you ever quit?"

"I'm obsessive-compulsive," she said, very carefully. "Hi." "Hi." His brows drew together as he noted the flushed cheeks and sloppy grin. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing. I've been playing with the ghosts. They're very friendly ghosts, much nicer than the Barlows."

He came closer. There was a bottle of wine next to her computer, all but empty. And a gla.s.s half-full. He took another, closer look at her face and snorted out a laugh.

"You're plowed, Dr. Knight."

"Does that mean drunk? If so, I'm forced to agree with your diagnosis. I'm very, very,very drunk." She lifted the gla.s.s, managed to sip without pouring it down the front of her shirt. "I don't know how it happened. Prob'ly 'cause I kept drinking."

Lord, she was cute, sprawled in the chair, her eyes all bright and glowing. Her smile was... well, he thought, stupid. It was satisfying to realize that she could be stupid about something.

"That'll do it." Gently he braced a finger under her chin to keep her head from wobbling. "Did you eat anything?"

"Nope. Can't cook." That was so funny she sputtered with laughter. "Hi."

"Yeah, hi." It was impossible to be angry with her now. She looked so sweet, and so incredibly drunk. He slipped the gla.s.ses the rest of the way off her nose and set them aside. "Let's get you upstairs, baby."

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" With that, she slid gracefully from chair to floor. With a good-natured oath, he reached down to pick her up. She might be drunk, but she had d.a.m.n good aim. Her mouth fastened on his in a long, sucking, eye-popping kiss.

"Mmm... You're so...tasty." Riding on that taste, and on the wine swimming in her head, she flung out her arms to fasten them around his neck. "Come down here, okay? And kiss me again. It just makes my head go all funny, and my heart pound. Want to feel my heart pound?" She s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand and slapped it over her breast. "Feel that?"

Yeah, he could feel it all right. "Cut it out." His system was jangled, and he had to hold on to honor with a slippery fist.