Carolina Moon

going to take a crack at you.”
    He shifted to sit up, then lifted her to face him. Her cheeks had lost that rosy, contented glow and were pale, her eyes looked strained, near to terrified. He hated it. “Did it ever occur to you that there might be times a man wouldn’t mind having a woman read his mind?”
    “It’s an inexcusable breach of privacy.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” To her shock, he rolled over and pulled her with him so she was sprawled over his chest. “Seems to me a few minutes back the two of us breached each other’s privacy pretty damn effectively. You want to snatch a stray thought out of my head, I’ll let you know if it pisses me off.”
    “I don’t understand you.”
    “You ought to have a pretty good clue since I’m lying here naked in your bed.” He kept his voice deliberately careless. “If that doesn’t do it, take another look inside, see what you find.”
    She didn’t know whether to be insulted or horrified. “It’s not like that.”
    “No? Tell me what it’s like then.” When she shook her head, he cupped the back of her neck and began to rub. “Tell me what it’s like.”
    “I don’t read minds. It doesn’t happen by accident, or hardly ever. It’s just that we were very closely connected physically.”
    “I can’t argue with that.”
    “And I was nearly asleep. Sometimes it can sneak up on you when you’re drifting like that. You had an image in your head. It was a very clear, distinct thought, and it just came through. Candlelight, music playing, the two of us standing by the bed. I saw it in mine.”
    “So … what were you wearing?” When her head snapped up, he shrugged. “Never mind. I can think that one through for myself. You get images, pictures of thoughts.”
    “Sometimes.” He looked so relaxed, so at ease. Where was his anger? “God, you confuse me.”
    “Good, it’ll keep you on your toes. Is that the way it always works?”
    “No. No. Because if you have any decency, you don’t go poking into someone else’s private thoughts. I block them out. It’s simple enough, as they only come through with effort anyway, or if there’s a great deal of emotion on either side. Or if I’m very tired.”
    “All right, then I’d say the next time we make love and you’re drifting off to sleep, I’d better keep any fantasies about Meg Ryan out of my head.”
    “Meg …” Baffled, Tory sat up again, automatically crossing an arm over her breasts. “Meg Ryan.”
    “Wholesome, sexy, smart.” Cade opened his eyes. “Seems to be my type.” He cocked his head, studied her. “Just trying to picture you as a blonde. It could work.”
    “I’m not going to be a party to some prurient fantasy you’ve cooked up about a Hollywood actress.” Miffed, she started to climb off the bed, and found herself flat on her back again, and under him.
    “Oh, come on, darling, just this once.”
    “No.”
    “God, you giggled. Meg, she’s got this sexy little giggle.” He nipped Tory’s shoulder. “Now I’m excited.”
    “Get off me, you idiot.”
    “I can’t.” He rushed wild kisses over her face, foolish and sweet as a puppy. “I’m a victim of my own helpless fantasies. Giggle again. I’m begging you.”
    “No!” But she did. “Don’t! Don’t you even think about—Jesus.” Her laughing struggles stopped as he slid silkily inside her. Her hips arched up, and her hands gripped his hips. “Don’t you dare call me Meg.”
    He lowered his head, chuckling as he took her.
    They ate Lilah’s casserole and washed it down with wine. And tumbled back into bed with the eagerness and energy that fuels new lovers. They made love at moonrise, with the light shining silver over their joined bodies. Then slept with the windows open to a fitful breeze and the ripe green scents of the marsh.
    “He’s coming back.”
    Hope sat cross-legged on the porch of the Marsh House. The porch that hadn’t been there when she’d been alive. She tossed her handful of silver jacks, then began bouncing the little red ball while her hand darted, deft and quick, plucking the star-shaped metal.
    “He’s watching.”
    “Who? Who is he watching?” Tory was eight again, her thin face wary, her legs bruised.
    “He likes to hurt girls.” She scooped up the last jack, tossed them again. “It makes him feel big, important. Twosies.” In that same steady rhythm she began snatching up pairs.
    “He hurt other girls, too. Not just you.”
    “Not just me,” Hope agreed.