"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. The temper in his eyes was easier to face than the passion 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 sex," 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? Nobody'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 glasses.

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 a wanner, 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 glasses 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 that whirlwind 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 muffled 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 glasses 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 glass 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 glass, 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 glasses 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 damn 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 snatched 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. "You're impaired, sweetie."

"I feel wonderful. Don't you want to feel me?"

This time his curse wasn't quite as good-natured. He hauled her up, and couldn't avoid the cheerful kisses she plastered over his face and neck.

"Stop it, Rebecca." His voice cracked with desperation as his body went on red alert. "Behave yourself."

"Don't want to. Always behaving. Tired of it. Let me just get this off for you." With more enthusiasm than finesse, she fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. "I love the way you look in your undershirt, all those muscles. Let me have them."

Now he was cursing bitterly as he carried her from the room. "You're going to pay for this. I swear. A hangover's going to be the least of it."

She giggled, kicking her legs, letting her hands run through his long, thick hair. She weighed next to nothing, but the muscles in his arms still began to quiver. His knees were going weak.

He nearly yelped when she bit his ear.

"Oh, I love this house. I love you. I love everything. Can we have wine in bed?"

"No, and you'd better—" He made the mistake of looking at her, and her mouth fused to his. Honorable or not, he was human. The heat ran through him, tormenting, tempting. With a long, desperate moan, he teetered on the stairs as he lost himself in those wonderful, willing lips. "Rebecca." Her name was a plea. "You're driving me crazy."

"I've always wanted to drive someone crazy. Then I could fix them, 'cause I'm a psychiatrist." Wiggling against him, she laughed uproariously. Her fingers tugged on the neck of the undershirt she'd uncovered, then snuck beneath, to flesh that was growing damp with sweat. "Kiss me some more, you know, the way you do when I can feel your teeth with my tongue. I just love when you do that." '