A Will and a Way

quick.”
    “Don’t joke, Michael.”
    “It’s no joke.” He drew her away, holding her by the shoulders. Briefly, firmly, he ran his hands down to her elbows, then back. “No, I’m not going to spell it out for you, Pandora. I’m not going to make it easy on you. You have to be willing to admit we both want the same thing. And you will.”
    “Arrogant,” she warned.
    “Confident,” he corrected. He had to be, or he’d be on his knees begging. There’d come a time, he’d promised himself, when she’d drop the last of her restrictions. “I want you.”
    A tremor skipped up her spine. “I know.”
    “Yeah.” He linked his fingers with hers. “I think you do.”

Chapter Eleven
    W inter raged its way through February. There came a point when Pandora had to shovel her way from the house to her workshop. She found herself grateful for the physical labor. Winter was a long quiet time that provided too many hours to think.
    In using this time, Pandora came to several uncomfortable realizations. Her life, as she’d known it, as she’d guided it, would never be the same. As far as her art was concerned, she felt the months of concentrated effort with dashes of excitement had only improved her crafting. In truth, she often used her jewelry to take her mind off what was happening to and around her. When that didn’t work, she used what was happening to and around her in her work.
    The sudden blunt understanding that her health, even her life, had been endangered made her take a step away from her usual practical outlook. It caused her to appreciate little things she’d always taken for granted. Waking up in a warm bed,watching snow fall while a fire crackled beside her. She’d learned that every second in life was vital.
    Already she was considering taking a day to drive back to New York and pack what was important to her. More than packing, it would be a time of decision making. What she kept, what she didn’t, would in some ways reflect the changes she’d accepted in herself.
    Both the lease on her apartment and the lease on the shop over the boutique were coming up for renewal. She’d let them lapse. Rather than living alone, she’d have the company and the responsibility of her uncle’s old servants. Though she’d once been determined to be responsible only to herself and her art, Pandora made the choice without a qualm. Though she had lived in the city, in the rush, in the crowds, she’d isolated herself. No more.
    Through it all wove Michael.
    In a few short weeks, what they had now would be over. The long winter they’d shared would be something to think of during other winters. As she prepared for a new and different life, Pandora promised herself she’d have no regrets. But she couldn’t stop herself from having wishes. Things were already changing.
    The police had come, and with their arrival had been more questions. Everything in her shop had to be locked up tightly after dark, and there were no more solitary walks in the woods after a snowfall. It had become a nightly ritual to go through the Folley and check doors and windows that had once been casually ignored. Often when she walked back to the house from her shop, she’d see Michael watching from the window of his room.It should have given her a warm, comfortable feeling, but she knew he was waiting for something else to happen. She knew, as she knew him, that he wanted it. Inactivity was sitting uneasily on him.
    Since they’d driven into New York to deal with the break-in at his apartment, he’d been distant, with a restlessness roiling underneath. Though they both understood the wisdom of having the grounds patrolled, she thought they felt intruded upon.
    They had no sense of satisfaction from the police investigation. Each one of their relatives had alibis for one or more of the incidents. So far the investigation seemed to have twin results. Since the police had been called in, nothing else had happened. There’d been no anonymous phone calls, no shadows in the woods, no bogus telegrams. It had, as Pandora had also predicted, stirred things up. She’d dealt with an irate phone call from Carlson who insisted they were using the investigation in an attempt to undermine his case against the will.
    On the heels of that had come a disjointed letter from Ginger who’d had the idea that the Folley was haunted. Michael had had a two-minute phone conversation with Morgan who’d muttered about private family business,