He wasn't muttering oaths now, but spewing them. Stars were revolving in front of his eyes. And, with disgust, he felt blood trickle from his nose.

He heard the hoarse scream, saw the ghostly figure in the shadows of the hall, and didn't hesitate. Pain and fury had him shooting forward like a bullet. Ghost or not, anything that gave him a bloody nose was going to pay.

It took him several furious seconds to realize he had warm flesh wriggling in his arms, and little more to recognize the scent

She was haunting him all right, he thought bitterly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Rafe?" Her voice squeaked out. In the dark, she threw up her arms, one flailing hand catching him sharply on the chin before she managed the wholehearted embrace. "Oh, my God, you scared me to death. I thought— I don't know. I heard... I came up. Oh, it's you."

"What's left of me." Swearing, he set her firmly aside. There was enough light from the lamp hooked at the top of the stairs for him to see her pale face and hugeeyes. "What are you doing here?"

"I picked up some things at auction and thought I'd put them— You're bleeding."

"No kidding." Scowling at her, he swiped a hand under his nose. "I don't think you broke it again. Quite."

"I—" She rubbed a hand over her heart to make sure it hadn't exploded from her chest. "Did I hit you with the door? I'm sorry. Here." She dug in the pocket of her jacket and found a tissue. "I'm really sorry," she repeated, and began to dab at the blood herself. "I was just..." Helpless, she tried to disguise a laugh as a hiccup. "I didn't realize." She gave up, wrapped her arms around her aching stomach, and slid to the floor.

"It's a real laugh riot."

"I'm sorry. I can't stop. I thought—I don't know what I thought. I heard them, or it, or whatever. I just had to come up and see, well, if I could see. Then you came barreling out."

"You're lucky I didn't punch you," he said, with relish.

"I know. I know."

His eyes narrowed as he watched her fold with mirth. "I still could."

"Oh, help me up." Still chuckling, she wiped at her eyes. "Let's get some ice on that nose."

"I can take care of it myself." But he took hold of her wrist and hauled her, none too gently, to her feet.

"Did I scare you?" She tried to keep her voice meek and apologetic as she followed him to the stairs.

"Get real."

"But you heard—you heard it, didn't you?" She braced, held her breath as they passed through the cold spot.

"Sure, I heard it. Goes on every night. A couple times during the day."

"And it doesn't... bother you?"

It boosted his ego to be able to flick a disdainful glance over his shoulder. "Why should it bother me? It's their house, too."

"I suppose." She looked around the kitchen. It was all but bare, and still grimy. There was a small, dented refrigerator, a stove that was down to two working burners, and an old door propped on sawhorses that served as a table. Rafe went directly to the pitted cast-iron sink and ran cold water. "Do you have a clean rag?"

In lieu of an answer, he bent over and scooped icy water onto his face. Adopting a shamed pose, Regan folded her hands.

"I'm really terribly sorry, Rafe. Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

He snatched up a frayed towel and dried his face. Without another word, he strode to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.

"If s stopped bleeding."

He twisted off the top, tossed it aside, then downed a third of the bottle. Regan decided that, under the circumstances, she could try again.

"I didn't see your car. That's why I didn't think anyone was here."

"Devin dropped me off." He decided that, under the circumstances, he could give her a break. "I've been putting in some extra time at night, camping out here. We're supposed to get hit with a snowstorm tonight, so it didn't make any sense to have the car. I can walk into town if I need to."

"Oh. Well. That explains it."

"Want a beer?"

"No thanks, I don't drink beer."

"Fresh out of champagne."

"Well, then, I really should be getting back. Actually, it's already starting to snow." Feeling awkward now, she pushed at her hair. "Ah, there were these candlesticks, and a really wonderful set of fire irons I bought today. I just wanted to bring them by, see how they looked."

He lifted the beer again, watching her. "So, how do they look?"

"I don't know. I set everything down in the hall when I came in and heard the, ah, evening performance."

"You decided to go ghost hunting instead of decorating."

"Looks that way. Well, why don't I set them up now, before I take off?"

Taking the beer along, he went with her. "I guess you've cooled off since this morning."

"Not exactly." She spared him a brief look as she headed to the main hall. "Though giving you a bloody nose, even inadvertently, was satisfying. You acted like a jerk."

His eyes narrowed as she picked up the box she'd left in the hall and sailed into the parlor. "I was giving it to you straight. Some women appreciate honesty."

"Some women like jerks." She set the box on a drum table she'd had the movers place at the window. "I don't. I like simplicity, manners, tact. Which, of course, you're completely without." Then she turned, and smiled. "But I think, under the circumstances, a truce is in order. Who broke your nose before?"

"Jared, when we were kids and fighting in the hayloft. He got lucky."

"Hmm..." She supposed she would never understand why brotherly affection meant bloody noses to the MacKades. "So this is where you're camping out." She gestured toward the sleeping bag tossed in front of the fire.

"If s the warmest room in the house right now. And the cleanest. What circumstances equal a truce?"

"Don't set that bottle down without a coaster." Heaving a sigh, she walked over, took one from the silver-plated basket and offered it. "You can't treat antiques like..."

"Furniture?" he finished, but he used the coaster. "What circumstances, Regan?"

"Our ongoing business relationship, for one." Because her fingers were tense again, she busied them by unbuttoning her coat as she walked back to the window. "We're both trying to accomplish the same thing with this house, so it doesn't make sense to be at odds. These are nice, aren't they?" She took the fire irons from the box, stroked a finger over the curved handle of the coal shovel. "They could use some polish."

"It ought to work better than the crowbar I've been using." Tucking his thumbs in his pockets, he watched her carry the irons to the fire, set them carefully and individually in their stand on the stone hearth.

"Whatever you used, it's a nice fire." Torn between courage and doubt, she stared at the flames. "I'm still looking for the right screen. This one doesn't really suit. It would be better in one of the rooms upstairs. I imagine you'll have them all working. The fireplaces."

"Eventually."

He'd only known her for a few weeks, he realized. How could he be so sure she was arguing with herself? With the firelight flickering over her, her back so straight, that sweep of hair curtaining half her face, she looked relaxed, confident, perfectly at-ease. Maybe it was the way she had her fingers linked together, or the way she wasn't looking at him. But he was certain some small inner war was being waged.

"Why are you here, Regan?"

"I told you." Dragging her fingers apart, she went back to the box. "I have some other stuff from the auction in my car, but you're not ready for it. But these..." With care, she unwrapped heavy crystal candlesticks. "I could see them in here, right on this table. You'll want flowers for this vase. Even in the winter."

She fussed with the arrangement, placing the candlesticks just so on one side of the Doulton vase she'd already sold him.

"Tulips would be lovely, when you can get them," she continued, carefully unwrapping the two white tapers she'd brought along. "But mums would do, and roses, of course." She put a smile on her face again and turned. "There, what do you think?"

Saying nothing, he took a box of wooden matches from the mantel and walked over to light the tapers. And watched her over the delicate twin flames. "They work."

"I meant the whole effect, the room." It was a good excuse to move away from him, wandering the space, running a finger along the curved back of the settee.

"It's perfect. I didn't expect any less from you."

"I'm not perfect." The words burst out of her, unexpected on both sides. "You make me nervous when you say so. I was always expected to be perfect, and I'm just not. I'm not carefully arranged, like this room, with every piece in place, no matter how much I want to be. I'm a mess." She dragged nervous fingers through her hair. "And I wasn't, before. I wasn't. No, stay over there." She backed up quickly when he stepped forward. "Just stay over there."

Frustrated, she waved her hands to ward him off, then paced. "You scared me this morning. You made me angry, but more, you scared me."

It wasn't easy for Rafe to keep his hands to himself. "How?"

"Because no one's ever wanted me the way you do. I know you do." She stopped, rubbing her hands over her arms. "You look at me as though you already know how it's going to be with us. And I have no control over it."

"I figured I was giving you control, laying it out for you."

"No. No," she repeated, flinging up her arms. "I don't have any control over the way I'm feeling. You have to know that. You know exactly the way you affect people."

"We're not talking about people."

"You know exactly the way you affect we." She almost shouted it before she fisted her hands and fought for composure. "You know I want you. Why wouldn't I? It's just as you said, we're adults who know what we want. And the more I backpedal, the more stupid I feel."