“Evening, madam. I’m Sergeant Grace. Mr. Marlowe here says you’ve had a spot of bother.” He pulled a chair up to the table, flipped open a notepad and took her name and address. “Orchard House, eh? Well, well, what’s been going on?”
Dixie resigned herself to recounting the whole story. In the retelling, it sounded like the fevered exaggerations of jet lag.
Sergeant Grace didn’t think so. He listened, nodded, and asked when she planned on moving in. “Well, well,” he flipped the notebook shut. “Seems to me you’d best get good locks if you plan on staying. Probably some yobs with nothing better to do, but it never hurts to be careful. Miss Hope, she claimed someone was trying to break in. Of course, she was getting frail at the end.” He stood up. “I’ll ask the patrol cars to drive by once in a while. Just to keep an eye on things. Give us a ring if anything else happens.”
She would, if she ever got a phone.
Sergeant Grace left. Christopher didn’t. He seemed settled until closing time. “Feel safer with the law on the alert?”
“I like the idea of a car driving by. Discourages unwelcome visitors.”
A slim, white finger circled the rim of his glass. “Would I be included in that description? I’m serious about looking over the library.”
Smiles like his should be illegal. “No harm in looking.”
“I’ll be over in a couple of days. Can I get you another drink?”
“Thanks, but I’m driving home.”
When she stood up, he followed her out. “Scared I’ll get lost?” One hand rested on the roof of her car, the other closed the door for her and curled round the open window edge. Immaculately manicured nails appeared chalk white against the dark paintwork. It had to be a trick of the moonlight.
“Dixie,” he said, his face a pale oval in the night, “don’t explore anymore at night. This may not be New York or Atlanta, but things happen. That house has been empty for months. If you do move in, change the locks.” A half-smile quivered around his mouth. “I suppose I sound like Uncle Christopher?”
No. He wasn’t the least avuncular. “It’s not that, but you’re the third person today to suggest I change the locks.”
“Might be good advice.” She couldn’t argue. She agreed.
Christopher watched the taillights disappear down the lane. So, she planned on moving in, claiming her property, and discouraging unwelcome visitors. She had guts to match her beauty, but no notion what she was taking on. He’d have his work cut out.
If he had any sense he’d leave. Now. But he couldn’t. He had to see that library and Dixie would invite him in.
Dixie! Dixie LePage could be his downfall—if he let her. He wouldn’t. He was stronger than any mortal, even one with auburn hair, green eyes like polished glass, a smile that scrambled his senses, and warm, sweet blood coursing through her veins.
But he wanted her and he’d never dare have her.
“Staying then?” Stan Collins asked.
“Just a month or so. Until I get things straight.” She’d taken an hour off from scrubbing to drive over to Horsley and extend her rental agreement.
“It’s booked for a weekend in June. If you’re still here then, I’ll give you another one. Just a weekend switch, okay?”
Dixie agreed and scribbled a reminder on a notepad she’d bought in the village. A search through her belongings hadn’t turned up her organizer. They agreed on a special rate for a long rental.
“Just don’t start driving to Scotland on weekends,” Stan warned.
She promised not to, and drove home to her mops and scrub brushes.
Sebastian’s Jag purred to a halt outside Emily’s front gate. Glancing from her bedroom window, Dixie smoothed the linen skirt of her business suit. The loan of Emily’s iron had improved its appearance, and an electric blue silk blouse she’d found at Maude’s in the village completed her outfit. After a day of scrubbing in jeans, it felt great to be dressed up.
Downstairs, Emily and Sebastian faced each other like a pair of bristling porcupines. Dixie wondered if she’d need body armor to walk between them. Emily stood back and grunted some comment that could have been a wish for a pleasant evening. As the front door closed behind them, Dixie felt a warm hand on the small of her back, propelling her towards the car.
“That color really suits you,” Sebastian said. “It really looks wonderful. Not everyone can wear it, but you have just the right hair and skin.” His breath on her neck felt even warmer than his fingers. Dixie hoped he’d keep both hands on the steering wheel.
The Whytes lived in a converted barn six or seven miles towards Guildford. Forty-odd people filled the high-ceilinged living room—not exactly the “drinks with some of the locals” she’d expected.
“How do you do?” A beaming, red-faced man clasped her hand in his enormous paw. “Glad you came.”
In a whirl of introductions, Dixie heard and forgot a dozen names. With a gin and tonic plus extra ice—two cubes just wasn’t enough—in hand, she looked around the Whytes’ living room at the wrought iron chandeliers, the polished floor with hand-woven rugs, the stone chimney that rose two stories and what had to be an original Warhol soup can over the sofa. Insurance must pay well.
Glancing around the room, Dixie looked at all the people she didn’t know and felt terribly alone. Why in the name of heaven had she left Charleston, home and security? She longed for a familiar face. As if in answer to prayer, she glimpsed her neighbor, Emma, through the crowd. Sebastian was deep in conversation about some plan to widen a road. Dixie crossed the room to Emma.
Christopher smelled her, sweeter and fresher than any other mortal here, the minute she entered the house. He hadn’t expected her, and seeing her with Caughleigh puzzled him. Until now, he’d known what Caughleigh wanted. How did Dixie fit in? Was she pawn or partner? Christopher rattled the ice cubes in his glass and watched Dixie stroll across the room to Ian Gordon’s wife.
At least the beautiful American had sense to distance herself from Caughleigh. Did she know what he was? He stifled the urge to cross the room, grab her and warn her of the risks Sebastian Caughleigh spread around. He’d let a pretty face drag him into trouble once before. Never again. He’d learned something in four centuries. He didn’t need, want nor care for any mortal woman, no matter how warm her smile or sweet the murmur of blood under her creamy skin. She’d bring him nothing but trouble and he carried a miasma of disaster. The only person worse for her was Sebastian Caughleigh—or Chadwick.
Christopher leaned against the chimney breast, watched Emma pull Dixie into a group of young women and imagined the conversation about babysitters, window cleaners and the best place to get a manicure this side of Guildford.
“Admiring the rich American heiress?” Larry Whyte sipped from the inevitable Scotch as he smiled at Christopher. “Watch out! I think Sebastian Caughleigh has set his sights on her.”
“Really?” That thought alone made him want to join the fray. “What about professional detachment and ethics?”
“We’re talking about Sebastian Caughleigh.” Larry chuckled. Christopher wasn’t amused. “There’s something about Americans,” Larry went on. “They’ve got so much energy. All bounce and bubbles. She’d be a nice toss in the sack. I rather envy Sebastian, but don’t tell Janet.”
Christopher wanted to force Larry’s bulbous nose into his Scotch until he bubbled. He wanted to pin him against the chimney and bash his face into the rough-cut stone. He wanted to wipe the complacency off his shiny face. But that sort of behavior raised eyebrows in the stockbroker belt, so he drew in his breath and his fury. His fist closed. Tight. He felt cold and wet on his cuff and realized he’d snapped the stem of his