Witchcraft

in passion. But that's not what you meant at all, is it?"
    "No," she snapped, annoyed at the feeling of warmth that was flowing into her cheeks. She concentrated intently on the fire. "That's not what I meant."
    "By total intimacy you mean something resembling telepathy, don't you? Being able to read each other's minds. And more than that; being in perfect agreement with what the other is thinking."
    "I admit it's an ideal, not a realistic goal.
    As I said, I'm lucky to be a writer of fiction."
    "Aren't you afraid of missing something good in real life while you pursue your fictional love affairs?"
    "I choose to live alone, Cavenaugh . That does not mean I spend every moment alone," she informed him coldly. "But until you find your soul mate, you don't intend to allow a man into your life on a permanent basis, right?" She'd had enough of this insane conversation.
    "I think it's time we changed the subject. Why are you here?"
    "Because you almost sent for me today," he said. "And because I want to be here.
    A week ago I decided I wouldn't delay matters much longer." Kimberly shifted uneasily. "What matters?" "You and me," he told her simply.
    "I've thought about you a great deal during the past two months, Kim."
    His eyes never left her face. The message in those emerald depths was very plain to read. Kimberly stared at him, fiercely aware of the primitive light flickering on his coal-black hair. It illuminated the silver at his temples, making her think of moonlight on a dark ocean.
    Darius Cavenaugh was somewhere in his late thirties, and the years were heavily etched on his harsh features. His body was lean, toughened by hard work in the Cavenaugh Vineyards, Kimberly imagined. But there was more to him than physical strength. The toughness went all the way through him, was a part of his emotional and intellectual makeup as well as the physical side of his nature. Briefly she wondered why a man who had made his living creating fine wines should have developed such a thoroughgoing, almost arrogant strength. The white shirt, jeans and well-worn boots in which he was dressed tonight gave no indication of the financial resources she suspected he commanded, but the clothes did emphasize the fundamental impact he made on her senses. "What are you thinking?" he asked when she didn't say anything for a moment. "That somehow you don't come across as a jolly little old wine maker," she remarked dryly. His eyes narrowed for an instant. "Maybe that's because I haven't always been a wine maker. But that's another matter. Let's get the business side of this out of the way first. What happened to make you think of calling me today?" She sighed, unable to see the rose hidden in shadows on her windowsill when she automatically glanced in that direction. "It was silly, really."
    "I doubt that. You may have some weird notions about the basic relationship between a man and a woman, but you're not silly. My family owes you more than it can ever repay, and I am more than willing to give you anything I can against that debt." Kimberly stirred uneasily again. "I wish you wouldn't talk about it in such terms. I only did what seemed logical in the circumstances."
    "You saved my nephew's life. He sends his best, by the way. When I told Scott I was going over to the coast to see you he asked me to tell you he'd like to play the '' game again some dark night." Kimberly groaned and lifted her gaze heavenward in mocking supplication. "You can tell him he'll have to play it alone next time.
    I was scared to death!" She remembered all too vividly that night two months ago when she had looked out her window and seen the lights in the normally closed cottage a few hundred yards from her own. The old, two-story house on the bluff above her cottage was used primarily as a summer rental so the fact that it was occupied in winter had mildly interested Kimberly. Other things had interested Kimberly about that house for three days preceding that fateful night. She had seen the car arrive with the woman and the small, dark-haired child. The little boy had been wearing a bright orange windbreaker. But after they had disappeared inside the old house they had not emerged again. It made no sense to come to the coast and stay locked inside a shack of a cottage for three solid days. People who came to this part of the country wanted to walk on the beach, hunt for shells and generally immerse themselves in the stark drama of winter on the coast. On the third day,