Dan looked up and his eyes met hers over the top of his paper. They seemed to gleam with all kinds of concealed emotions, emotions that lent an intoxicating promise to the evening.
“I’m starved.” His eyes lingered on her mouth, adding intriguing shades of meaning to the simple phrase. “You will join me, won’t you?” he asked as he got to his feet.
“Sure.” Cassie accepted promptly, seeing no reason to be coy about preferring his company to eating alone. “Have a seat in the dining room, and I’ll bring out dinner.”
She hurried back into the kitchen and carefully loaded the serving tray. With any luck, he’d be so mellow from Aunt Hannah’s delicious cooking—to say nothing of her own scintillating company—that by the time the evening was over, she’d know everything there was to know about him. Starting with why he hadn’t used a credit card to register and why he’d agreed to write Ed’s editorial.
Cassie paused, frowning at the sugar bowl as something suddenly occurred to her. How had Ed known that Dan could write anything, let alone a well-reasoned editorial? Writing was a finely honed skill—a skill that Ed had automatically assumed Dan possessed. Why?
Cassie thoughtfully added the creamer to the tray as she remembered the sly expression on Ed’s face when he’d asked Dan to do it. Ed knew something about Dan. Or thought he knew something. But what? As an editor, Ed read all the dispatches from the news services. Could he have run across Dan’s name or picture in a story?
She felt a momentary frisson of fear tighten the skin on her face before common sense doused it. If Ed knew something unsavory about Dan, he would have warned her. And he wouldn’t have extorted a free editorial. He’d have called the police.
Picking up the tray, she shouldered open the kitchen door and entered the dining room. She automatically glanced around, looking for Dan, and found him bent over the huge fieldstone fireplace. He had taken off his jacket and was in the process of scattering her carefully laid fire with the brass poker.
Maybe he was an escaped pyromaniac, she thought ruefully as a shower of sparks disappeared up the chimney. She set the tray down on the table, and Dan glanced up at the sound.
“I love a fire,” he said slowly. “Somehow its light seems to hold the horrors of the world at bay.”
Cassie frowned at the bleak starkness of his expression. She wanted to erase it, but she didn’t know the right words. Nor did she know if he would resent her attempt. So she did the only other thing she could think of and pretended not to notice.
“There.” She finished unloading the tray and sat down, motioning him into the chair opposite her. “You have your choice of pot roast and veggies or veggies and pot roast.”
“In that case, madam, I choose pot roast and vegetables. And coffee.” He nodded toward the pot.
Cassie poured a cup and handed it to him. How could she direct the conversation along the lines she wanted? she wondered as she watched him stir cream and sugar into his coffee. A point-blank question would be worse than useless. Not only would he be unlikely to answer it, but it would put him on guard. It might even make him avoid her in the future.
The possibility sent a chill of loss through her. She didn’t want him to avoid her. She wanted... What did she want from this comparative stranger who seemed so tantalizingly familiar? she asked herself. Companionship? Her eyes traced over his firm lips. No, she wanted more than that, she admitted honestly. She wanted to touch him. To kiss him. She squarely faced the compulsion that had been growing from the first moment she’d seen him.
“Why?” Dan asked.
Cassie blinked, for one moment thinking that he was asking her why she wanted to kiss him. Common sense came to her rescue. Dan Travis might be a fascinating man, but he wasn’t clairvoyant.
“Why what?” she asked.
“Why is an advertising executive from New York City living in the wilds of New Hampshire spreading rumors about seeing ghosts?”
“I always spend my vacations with Aunt Hannah. And I happen to prefer the wilds of New Hampshire to the jungle of New York.”
“But that still doesn’t explain you telling people you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I did not,” Cassie insisted. “In fact, I quite clearly stated that not only did I not believe in ghosts, but that I was sure there was a reasonable explanation for what I saw.”
Dan eyed her through the steam rising from his coffee cup, his expression unreadable. “Tell me more about your nonghost,” he finally said.
Cassie frowned, wondering how it was that he was the one doing all the questioning when she’d been the one intending to. Maybe talking about Jonas would put Dan off guard, and she could slip in a few of her own questions, she decided.
“There’s very little to tell,” she said carefully. “I saw a man on the steps, and again in the attic, who looked like the description of Jonas Middlebury in Millicent’s diaries. Not believing in ghosts, I was hoping that someone in town might have a logical explanation for what I saw.”
“Maybe I’ll see him?” Dan gave her a slow grin that made her very wary. He would not be an easy man to con.
“I wouldn’t know. He didn’t give me an itinerary of his hauntings. Do you have a weak heart?” she suddenly asked. He didn’t look like he did, but then, looks could be deceptive.
“No, just a game leg.” Dan instinctively rubbed his hand over his right thigh. “I think I’d like some of that pot roast.” He purposefully changed the subject, and Cassie had no alternative but to go along with it.
She handed him the platter of pot roast, freezing as he reached for the plate and his rolled-up shirtsleeve stretched back over his forearm. Hastily she looked down at her own plate to hide her sense of shock. That was an almost-healed scar from a bullet wound on his arm! She was sure of it. Last fall she’d overseen an ad campaign to promote a violent cops-and-robbers film, and the makeup man had had a wall full of photos of various bullet scars as examples to help him create fake scars on the characters. Cassie had spent the better part of three days listening to the man expound on what bullets did to human flesh and the difficulty of recreating that impact with makeup. There was no way she could ever mistake a bullet scar.
So why did Dan have one? Surreptitiously, she studied him. He was pouring gravy into the hole he’d made in his mound of mashed potatoes with a concentration she found endearing.
Cassie unconsciously relaxed. She didn’t know why he’d been shot, but she would be willing to bet that he hadn’t been doing anything illegal at the time. Maybe he was simply a careless hunter with very bad aim.
“You still haven’t told me about your ghost,” Dan persisted.
“Yes, I have. You simply didn’t like what I told you. And since questions seem to be the order of the day—” she gave up on the subtle approach and opted for directness “—who did Ed think you were?”
“Beats me.” Dan’s shrug was a masterpiece of unconcern. “Ask him if you want to know.”
“Why did you agree to write his editorial for him?” she persisted.
He
