Witchcraft

his first name. He had remained Cavenaugh in her mind. And after tonight, that hadn't changed. "Do you have an uncle who would pay lots of money to get you back?" Scott had demanded interestedly, kicking his feet as he sat on the wooden chair beside her.
    One of the men in the sheriff's office had bundled him up in an old leather flight jacket, which Scott had loved on sight. "No, I'm afraid I don't have anyone who would shell out cold cash to get me back," Kimberly had told the boy, unprepared for the way it had upset him. "How about your mom and dad?" he'd Pressed anxiously. "I never knew my father," Kimberly had said carefully, "and my mother died a few years ago."
    "And you don't even have an uncle like mine?" Kimberly had gently denied the existence of any such useful uncle in her life. Later, after meeting Darius Cavenaugh she'd privately decided there were very few lit the kids in the world with uncles like Cavenaugh . She had thought the topic of who might pay her ransom should she ever be kidnapped had been closed. Certainly Scott's attention had been totally diverted the moment Darious Cavenaugh had walked through the door. The child had rushed forward with excitement and confidence in his greeting. Cavenaugh had swept him up and examined every inch of him with eyes of green ice. At last, satisfied that the boy was all right, he'd allowed Scott to make the introductions. Eagerly Scott had explained who Kimberly Sawyer was and how she had come to his window that night. "We went across the top of the porch and down the side and the witch never even knew we were gone, did she, Kim?"
    "No," she agreed, smiling affectionately at the Youngster. "She never even knew. Rather like Hansel and Gretel." "I told Kim you would have paid anything to get me back, isn't that right, Uncle Dare?" Holding the hand of the man with happy possessiveness, Scott looked up at his uncle for confirmation. "Anything," Cavenaugh had agreed. Kimberly had seen the grim protectiveness in the depth of the man's gaze and had known he spoke the truth. Cavenaugh would have done more than pay a ransom to get Scott back. He would have killed to save the boy. The stark realization of just how far this man would go to fulfill his obligations had sent an odd shiver down her spine. "Kim doesn't have anyone who would pay to get her back if someone took her away," Scott went on before Kimberly realized what he was going to say.
    "But we would pay, wouldn't we, Uncle Dare?" Cavenaugh had looked straight into Kimberly's embarrassed gaze and had said with absolute conviction, "We would do anything we could for Miss. Sawyer. She has only to ask." later, after the long talk with the authorities, Cavenaugh had taken Kim aside and reiterated that vow. Recognizing the powerful sense of obligation by which Cavenaugh had felt himself bound, Kimberly had quickly promised to call on him should she ever need help. At the time, of course, she had never anticipated such an occasion. Yet his face was the first thing she had thought of when the arrival of the rose sent a shaft of fear through her. And now he was here. But there was a new element in the situation. In addition to the sense of obligation he felt toward her, there was no mistaking the fact that Cavenaugh wanted her physically. When it came to dealing with the sensual tension he evoked in her, Kimberly knew she was trying to handle something just as strong as any witchcraft. But it was a comfort to know he was out there in her living room tonight. Normally she did not mind spending the nights alone. Tonight, she realized, would have been an exception. The knowledge that Cavenaugh was close by soothed the lingering fear the arrival of the rose had caused. She soon fell asleep. When she awoke several hours later the storm had slackened somewhat but the wind continued to hurl rain against the windows behind the drawn shades.
    Kimberly heard the sounds of the storm only vaguely. Her main awareness was of being thirsty. Too many salty black olives on the potato tonight. Hovering in that floating region between wakefulness and dreams, she wondered if she could get back to sleep without making a trip out to the kitchen for a glass of water. But the growing thirst finally had its way. Still half asleep, Kimberly pushed back the quilt and padded barefoot to her bedroom door. Dimly she wondered why she had closed it tonight. She never closed her door. After all, there was hardly any need. She was always alone in the