He waited until the sound of her rapid footsteps had finished echoing. “She's very protective.”

“We stick together,” C.C. commented, and set a paper on a pile without a clue to its contents.

“I've noticed. Catherine...”

Braced, C.C. flicked him her coolest glance. “Yes?” “I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

“All right. In what way?”

She had dust on her cheek. He wanted, badly, to smile and tell her. To hear her laugh as she brushed it off. “After last night—I know how upset you were when you left my room.”

“Yes, I was upset.” She turned over another piece of paper. “I guess I made quite a scene.”

“No, that's not what I meant.”

“I did.” She forced her lips to curve. “I guess I'm the one who should apologize this time. The séance, all that happened during it, went to my head.” Not my head, she thought, but my heart. “I must have sounded like an idiot when I came to your room.”

“No, of course not.” She was so cool, he thought. So composed. And she baffled him. “You said you loved me.”

“I know what I said.” Her voice dropped another ten degrees, but her smile stayed in place. “Why don't we both chalk it up to the mood of the moment?”

That was reasonable, he realized. So why did he feel so lost. “Then you didn't mean it?”

“Trent, we've only known each other for a few days.” Did he want to make her suffer? she wondered.

“But you looked so—devastated when you left.” She arched a brow. “Do I look devastated now?” “No,” he said slowly. “No, you don't.”

“Well, then. Let's forget it.” As she spoke, the sun lost itself behind the clouds. “That would be best for both of us, wouldn't it?”

“Yes.” It was just what he'd wanted. Yet he felt empty when he stood up

again. “I do want what's best for you, C.C.”

“Fine.” She studied the paper in her hand. “If you're going down, ask Lilah to bring up some coffee when she comes.”

“All right.”

She waited until she was sure he was gone before she covered her face with her hands. She'd been wrong, C.C. discovered. She hadn't nearly cried herself dry.

Trent went back to his room. His briefcase was there, stacked with work he had intended to do while away from his office. Taking a seat at the scarred kneehole desk, he opened a file.

Ten minutes later, he was staring out the window without having glanced at the first word.

He shook himself, picked up his pen and ordered himself to concentrate. He succeeded in reading the first word, even the first paragraph. Three times. Disgusted, he tossed the pen aside and rose to pace.

It was ridiculous, he thought. He had worked in hotel suites all over the world. Why should this room be any different? It had walls and windows, a ceiling—so to speak. The desk was more than adequate. He could even, if he chose, light a fire to add some cheer. And some warmth. God knew he could use some warmth after the thirty icy minutes he'd spent in the storeroom. There was no reason why he shouldn't be able to sit down and take care of some business for an hour or two.

Except that he kept remembering—how lovely C.G. had looked when she'd come into the room in her gray flannel robe and bare feet. He could still see the way her eyes had glowed when she had stood almost where he was standing now, smiling at him. Frowning, he rubbed at a dull pain around his heart. He wasn't accustomed to aches there. Headaches certainly. Never heartaches.

But the memory of the way she'd slipped into his arms haunted him. And her taste—why was it that it still hovered just a breath from his own lips?

It was guilt, that was all, he assured himself. He had hurt her, the way he was certain he'd never hurt another woman. No matter how cool she had been today, no matter how composed, that was a guilt he would live with for a long time.

Maybe if he went up and talked to her again. His hand was on the knob

before he stopped himself. That would only make things worse, if possible. Just because he wanted to assuage some guilt was no excuse to put her in an uncomfortable position again.

She was handling it, better than he by all accounts. She was strong, obviously resilient. Proud. Soft, his mind wandered. Warm. Incredibly beautiful.

On an oath he began to pace again. It would be wiser for him to concentrate on the house rather than any of its occupants. The few days he'd spent in it might have caused a personal upheaval, but it had given him time and opportunity to formulate plans. From the inside. It had given him a taste of the mood and tone and the history. And if he could settle down for a few moments, he could put some of those thoughts on paper.

But it was hopeless. The minute he took his pen in hand, his mind went blank. He was feeling closed in, Trent told himself. He just needed some air. Snatching up a jacket, he did something he hadn't given himself time to do in months.

He took a walk.

Following instinct, he headed toward the cliffs. Down the uneven lawn, around a crumbling stone wall. Toward the sea. The air had a bite. It seemed that spring had decided to pick up her pretty skirts and retreat. The sky was gray and moody, with a few hopeful patches of blue. Wildflowers that had been brave enough to shove their way through rock and soil blew fitfully in the wind.

Trent walked with his hands in his pockets, and his head down. Depression wasn't a familiar sensation, and he was determined to walk it off. When he glanced back, he could just see the peaks of towers above and behind. He turned away and faced the sea—unknowingly mirroring the stance of a man who had painted there decades before.

Breathtaking. It was the only word that came to his mind. Rocks tumbled dizzily down, pink and gray where the wind buffeted them, black where the water struck and funneled. Bad-tempered whitecaps churned, slicing at the darker water. Smoky fog rolled and shredded, and the air held a fresh threat of rain.

It should have been gloomy. It was simply spectacular.

He wished she was with him. That she would be here, now, beside him before time passed or the wind changed. She would smile, he thought. Laugh, as she planted those long, gorgeous legs and lifted her face to the blow. If she had been there, the beauty of it wouldn't make him feel so lonely. So damned lonely.

The tingle at the base of his neck had him turning, nearly reaching out. He'd been so certain that he would look and see her walking toward him. There was nothing but the slope of rock, and the wind. Yet the feeling of another presence remained, very real, so that he almost called out.

He was a sensible man, Trent assured himself. He knew he was alone. Yet it seemed as though someone was there with him, waiting. Watching. For a moment, he was certain he caught the light, drifting scent of honeysuckle.

Imagination, he decided, but his hand wasn't quite steady as he lifted it to push the blowing hair out his eyes.

Then there was weeping. Trent froze as he listened to the sad, quiet sound that sobbed just under the wind. It ebbed and flowed, like the sea itself. Something clenched inside his stomach as he strained to hear—though common sense told him there could be nothing to hear.

A nervous breakdown? he wondered. But the sound was real, damn it Not a hallucination. Slowly, ears pricked, he climbed down a jumble of rocks.

“Who's there?” he shouted as the sound sighed and drifted on the wind. Chasing it, he hurried down, driven by an urgency that drummed through his blood. A shower of loose stones rattled into space, bringing him sharply back to reality.

What in God's name was he doing? Scrambling down a cliff wall after a ghost? He lifted his hands and saw that despite the brisk wind his palms were sweating. All he could hear now was the frantic pounding of his own heart. After forcing himself to stand still and take a few calming breaths, he looked around for the easiest form of assent.

He had just started back when the sound came again. Weeping. No, he realized. Whimpering. It was quite clear now and nearly under his feet. Crouching, Trent searched behind an outcrop of rock. It was a poor, pitiful sight, he thought. The little black puppy was hardly more than a ball of furcovered bones. Relief poured through him, making him laugh out loud. He wasn't going crazy after all. As Trent studied it, the terrified pup tried to inch back, but there was nowhere to go. Its little frightened eyes fixed on Trent as it trembled. “Had a rough time, have you?” Cautiously Trent reached out, ready to snatch his hand back if the pup snapped. Instead it simply cowered and whined. “It's okay, fella. Relax. I won't hurt you.” Gently he stroked the puppy between the ears with his fingertips. Still shivering, the pup licked Trent's hand. “Guess you're feeling pretty lonely.” He sighed as he calmed the dog. “Me, too. Why don't we go back to the house?” He gathered the dog up, zipping it inside his jacket for the climb. When he was halfway to the top, Trent stopped then turned blindly around. It was at least fifty yards from where he had stood looking out to sea to where he had discovered the stray. His palms grew damp again when he realized it would have been impossible for him to have heard the puppy's whines from the ridge above. The distance and the wind would have smothered the whimpers. Yet he had heard...something. And, hearing it, had climbed down to find the lost dog. “What the devil was it?” Trent murmured, and cuddling the pup closer, headed for home. He was just beginning to feel foolish when he crossed the lawn. What was he supposed to say to his hostesses? Look what followed me home? How about--Guess what? I decided to take my life in my hands and climb back down the cliff. Look what I found. Neither opening seemed quite suitable. The sensible thing would be to get in the car and drive the dog down to the village. There was bound to be an animal shelter or vet. He could hardly march into the parlor and dump his find on the rug. But he couldn't, Trent discovered. He simply couldn't turn the shivering ball of fur over to strangers. The little guy trusted him and was even now curling softly under his heart. As he stood hesitating, C.C. came out of the house.