The Magical Christmas Cat

Chapter 1

"The love of my life is not going to wear a pink shirt." Bree Murphy looked in disbelief at her little sister Abigail, who was waving what remained of the tarot deck in her hand with total confidence.

"It's right here in the cards, Bree." Abby tapped the Empress card lying on the kitchen table.

Bree fought the urge to roll her eyes. Teaching Abby the tarot had been her own idea, apparently a stupid one. Abby couldn't di­vine her way out of a paper bag if suggesting Bree would date a man in pastels was any indication. It wasn't going to happen. Ever. Besides, the Empress was an indicator of her own destiny, her own strength, not about a man.

"No men in pink. I like men in black who read poetry. You know my type."

"Your type usually looks like they need a flea dip," Bree's older sister Charlotte commented.

That was a total exaggeration. "Hey, no one I have ever dated is unclean. Give me some credit. But being empathic makes me sympathetic. I sense when men need my support and emotional counseling, and I can't help but respond."

"That's actually kind of creepy," Abby said, her lip curling back. "Who wants a guy who's that needy?"

Hey, Bree knew it was a bad pattern. She could admit that. That was why she had stayed away from men for the last two years, which suddenly seemed like an incredibly long time. A long, celibate, lonely time. But she did not need her eighteen-year-old sister pass­ing judgment. "And you're the expert on men, how?"

"I have a boyfriend," Abby said, tossing back her dark hair.

Now Bree did let loose with an eye roll. "Whatever." Bree didn't think Abby's boyfriend was any sort of model of male attentiveness, but there was no point in arguing. "But seriously, no men in pink shirts."

"He does something corporate," Abby added, as if she hadn't heard a word of protest. "I see him in an office."

That got Bree's attention. Not because she would ever date someone corporate, because she so wouldn't, but because Bree was speaking with such total confidence, and there was nothing in the tarot spread in front of her that should be giving her a clear visual of any man, let alone a candidate for the corner office. "Abby, where are you seeing this?"

Despite Charlotte's lifelong protests, Bree knew that all three of them were witches. It was a trait of Murphy women, going back as far as Bree could trace. And she knew that she was em­pathic, meaning she could see and feel people's emotions almost as clearly as if they were her own. She also knew that Charlotte could move objects when she really focused, and that Abby could insert herself into her sisters' dreams. She'd been doing it since she was a toddler. But until now, Bree had never thought Abby could be psychic.

"I don't know." Abby shrugged. "It's just like there. In my brain. I thought that's what happens with tarot."

"No, not really. The tarot is an interpretation based on the spread of the cards." Bree lifted her cat Akasha off the floor as she walked by and settled the feline's warm bulk in her lap. "What else do you see?" She was curious to know if Abby was in truth seeing anything, or if she was just projecting her own thoughts and imagi­nation out onto the cards.

If Abby were psychic after all, she clearly had Bree mixed up with someone else because she was not, repeat not, going to be fall­ing for a man who thought money was the ultimate goddess and treated his overpriced car like a high-class hooker to stroke.

"Um. I see him walking up to the house and ringing the door­bell."

Because the love of her life was actually just going to stroll up to her very own house and ring the bell. Like that ever happened to anyone, let alone Bree. No one came to her front door but the mail­man, and he was fifty and happily married.

Then Abby cocked her head to the side, staring off into space. "He wants to have sex with you."

"Okay, that's enough. This is ridiculous." Abby was either mak­ing fun of her for not dating in twenty—count them—twenty months or she was fishing to know about her sister's sex life. Either way, Bree wasn't biting.

Charlotte didn't look thrilled with the conversation either. "You know, we should probably get started if you want your Christmas tree up by the end of the day."

Bree wasn't really dying for a Christmas tree at all since she usu­ally burned a Yule log, but it made Charlotte happy to provide her with one, and Bree could always put a witch's spin on it. "Sounds good." She moved to put Akasha down and paused. "What's in her mouth?" She tried to reach for the cat, but Akasha twisted her head in protest.

"Oh, my God," Charlotte said, reaching out and snatching something from the cat's mouth. "It's the mistletoe. From last Christmas. The one we put the spell on."

As her sister waved it in the air, staring at the greenery like it was possessed, Bree winced. "Whoops. I meant to destroy that." It was nothing more than a sprig of mistletoe, but she and Charlotte had loaded it with symbols of lust so Charlotte could lure her friend Will to make a move on her.

It had worked, forcing the longtime friends to confront their in­tense feelings for each other, resulting in Charlotte with a wedding ring and a new house to live in, but Bree knew she never should have left that mistletoe just lying around. Last she remembered, she had tossed it on her dresser a solid twelve months earlier, which meant Akasha had probably dragged it off and under the bed or something. No wonder Bree had been plagued with sex dreams for months. She had a powerfully charged-hexensymbol hanging out under her bed.

And no man to satisfy her.

Ugh. She hated feeling discontent. And in a constant state of arousal.

"It's probably not a big deal," Charlotte said, carefully laying the loaded mistletoe on the kitchen table. "Will said it didn't work. He already was lusting for me way before we made this thing."

Bree had known that, which was why she had encouraged Char­lotte to go for it with Will. "Yeah, but you can't just leave magick lying around."

Especially anywhere around her bed.

"The doorbell's ringing," Charlotte said. "Want me to get it?"

"No, I can get it." Bree stood up, noting that Akasha had already leaped up onto the fourth empty chair and snagged the mistletoe again. Bree was going to have to grab that thing and stuff it into a drawer until she could destroy it bit by bit.

Abby was two steps behind her.

"Why are you following me?" Bree asked her sister, darting a glance at her over her shoulder. "I can answer the door by myself."

"It's him," Abby said in an awed whisper. "The guy I saw."

"Sure. Or it's my mailman letting me know I have a package." Bree went down the hallway of the big Victorian house she had in­herited from her grandmother. It was a lot of house for her now that Charlotte had moved out, but maybe Abby would want to move in after high school. Living with their parents was sometimes nausea-inducing since they were engaged in a perpetual lovefest. It was sweet and warming to see from a distance, but on a daily basis all the groping got old. Abby would probably appreciate some space.

Bree pulled open the front door and almost had a heart attack.

Have mercy, it was a man, about thirty years old, and very clearly wearing a pink dress shirt under his winter coat, the collar peeking out above the zipper. He was just standing there. On her front step. With snow on his shiny black shoes.

She knew this man. He was Amanda Delmar Tucker's lawyer, from Chicago.

Bree had only met him once, for a brief minute in the coffeeshop with Abby, the previous December, and he had clearly thought she had been sniffing her black nail polish given the look of disdain on his face at the time.

Now he was standing on her doorstep, with nary a smile in sight.

Abby was whispering loudly in her ear, "It's him. Told you so. Right on up the sidewalk to the front door. Ringing the bell. I'm so right."

Caught between wanting to muzzle her sister and slam the front door shut, Bree just stared at him. He stared back, his compelling chocolate brown eyes boring into her.

And suddenly she knew that her sister was right, as her empathic ability picked up on the feelings he was projecting, unaware that she could sense them. This man, this lawyer, wanted to have sex with her.

Yikes.

Ian Carrington was seriously annoyed with himself. He had told himself that seeing Bree Murphy again was the perfect opportunity to eradicate her from all of his thoughts. That the woman in the flesh, who he had only met once for such a short span of time, couldn't possibly live up to the sensual fantasies his sick mind had conjured over the past year. He had been wrong.

The minute she opened the door and stared out at him, her dark hair falling past her shoulders, her pale, smooth skin a sharp contrast to the crimson of her bright lipstick, he had felt a gigantic kick of lust. He had an instant erection and wanted nothing more on earth than to have her naked in his bed, eyes glazed with pas­sion, lips swollen from his kisses, voice begging him for more.

It was illogical. She was completely not his type in any way, shape, or form. He went for corporate women, not the kooky kind like Bree, who wore a witch pendant around her neck and did tarot readings for a living. He had never bought in to any of that sixth-sense crap, and he lived his life logically, with a plan. It was what he attributed his success to, despite his unusual and impoverished childhood. Living by logic and hard work had brought him to where he was.

But there was no denying that he was attracted to Bree in the most basic way, whether it made sense or not, and had been dream­ing about her virtually nonstop from the second they had met. Both while awake and asleep.

Now she was staring at him like he was a bug she'd like to squish.

So even though this trip technically hadn't been necessary for the business he had to conduct, he had taken it with the intention of getting over his little lust crush on Bree Murphy and restoring his life to its former equilibrium. Only now that he had seen her again, in all her delicious flesh, he knew he wasn't over his crush, not by a mile. And he was going to stay in Cuttersville, Ohio, until he either had sex with Bree or regained his sanity, because he could not return to Chicago and face another twelve months of X-rated dreams that featured him and Bree Murphy rocking the house. He would spontaneously combust if he had to endure any more of the graphic dreams that were soaking him in sweat every other night.

"Hi, I'm Ian Carrington," he said, holding out his hand.

She took it for about a microsecond before she dropped it. "I've met you before. You're Amanda's lawyer."

Bree said "lawyer" with the disgust generally reserved for con artists who bilked seniors of their life savings. But he ignored that. At least she remembered meeting him. A blank look from her would have been a serious blow to his ego. "Exactly. It's great to see you again, Bree. Do you have a minute? I have a business proposi­tion I'd like to discuss with you."

"Uh . . . sure. Okay." Bree looked confused, but she did step back to let him in, bumping into a girl in the process who Ian recognized as her younger sister. "Abby, give me some breathing room," she said in annoyance. Then to him, "Come on in."

As Ian stepped into the entryway of the house, Abby was grin­ning from ear to ear, which was a little distracting. Ian offered her his hand as well. "Ian Carrington."

"Abigail Murphy," she said, still smiling. "I'm psychic."

One of Ian's eyebrows shot up before he could stop it. "That's nice," he said, for lack of anything better to say. Kookiness obvi­ously ran in the family.

"Abby," Bree said, her voice laced with warning.

"I just told Bree not fifteen minutes ago that a guy with a pink shirt was going to ring her doorbell and that you—"

Bree's hand clapped over her sister's mouth, cutting off Abby's words. Bree gave him a sheepish look, her cheeks tinting with em­barrassment. "Sorry. She's sweet but delusional."

Ian glanced down involuntarily at his pink shirt. Why did he get the feeling he'd just been insulted? What the hell was wrong with pink anyway? It wasn't like it was hot pink, it was a very faint, light, barely there pink. It was a very now color in corporate circles. It was GQ, damn it.

But something about Bree Murphy and her Goth clothes suddenly made him feel . . . unmanly. Not a good feeling, given the dreams he'd been having, which all involved her running her fairskinned fingers with those black nails over his chest, down his na-

vel, and landing on his . . .

Ian dragged himself back to reality. "I won't take up a lot of your time, I just wanted to discuss this house with you. You're the owner, correct?"

Bree frowned at him. "Yes. Why?"

A blonde came down the hall and gave the women a pointed look. "Maybe he would like to sit down and have a cup of tea."

"Oh, that's not necessary," he protested, when Bree gave the woman a look of horror. "I just need a minute."

"No, no," Bree said, looking flustered and embarrassed and damn adorable. "We should at least sit down. This is my other sis­ter, Charlotte, by the way."

"Charlotte Murphy-Thornton," the blonde said, sticking her hand out and giving his a firm shake.

"Ian Carrington."

Charlotte's type he understood. She was the kind of woman he normally interacted with. She was dressed in a twin sweater set in a shade of green that flattered her complexion, and she wore tasteful gold jewelry, enough for a flash, but not so much that it was gaudy. If he was going to lust after a Murphy sister, Charlotte should be the one. They were a logical fit. Of course, his client Amanda had told him Charlotte was newly married, and there was nothing logi­cal about what he was feeling anyway because he wanted Bree in all her black. And then out of all of her black. Naked. Dark hair tumbling over her bare flesh.

He was insane, absolutely completely out of his normally practi­cal mind. And horny. With no explana-tion for either.

Charlotte and Bree led him down the hallway to the kitchen, and Ian fought the urge to look at Bree's sexy backside. He lost. It was a good view, and he didn't want to miss it. She was wearing a long, stretchy black skirt that hugged her curves in a way that made him sweat.

Abby patted him on the arm as she walked next to him. "It's okay, you can't help it. It's destiny."

"What?" The youngest Murphy sister definitely freaked him out. He had no idea what to make of her.

"It will all make sense soon," she told him.

He could only hope. Because so far his preoccupat-ion with Bree made no sense whatsoever, nor could he figure out why all his sex­ual dreams involving her took place in a Christmas setting. It was weird as hell, and said questionable things about his psyche.

"What about the house?" Bree said, after they were all seated at a vintage table.

It was painted in a soft shade of pink that surprised Ian. He wouldn't have expected that to be her choice in decor. Then again, he really knew very little about her at all. He needed to remember that. Own it. Eat it, damn it. There was no reason to be attracted to Bree Murphy.

"I have a client who would like to make an offer for the house." There. That sounded professional and completely lacking in lust.

"An offer? What does that mean?" Bree was looking at him with total suspicion, her fingers playing with the edge of a rich blue place mat.

"Someone wants to buy the house?" Charlotte asked, her lip curling up in horror. "Grandma's house?"

Ian didn't know the particulars, but he did know that Bree had inherited the house from her grandmother. He had assumed she would be reluctant, but he was obligated to make the offer for his client. And it had given him a legitimate excuse to ring Bree's doorbell. "Yes." Ian pulled out the contract that detailed the offer and passed it across the table. "It's a generous offer."

Bree took the paper, glanced down at it, and blanched. "Who the hell thinks my house is worth this much money?"

"My client does." Ian leaned back in his chair and tried to project casual. It was likely he wasn't succeeding because Bree was glaring at him, and all he could think about was leaning over the table and kissing her. Running his hands down her sides, raking his fingers through her hair, and licking every inch of her. It made focusing on real estate damn difficult.

"What's his name? What is he going to do with the house?"

"You're not going to actually consider this, are you?" Abby looked at Bree in disbelief.

"No, absolutely not. But I'm curious who this person is and why he wants my house."

All Ian heard was that she wasn't interested. "If you're not go­ing to accept the offer, I don't see any reason to tell you his plans for the property." Then they could disregard what had supposedly brought him there initially and move straight to his asking her out for dinner, which was what he planned to do now that he realized there was no possibility of his attraction dissolving on sight. It had actually increased now that he was sitting close enough to touch her, and he would have thought that was impossible.

She obviously wasn't feeling the lust, if that sniff of disdain was any indication. "Why the hell can't you tell me who he is? What difference does it make? Is he some kind of pervert? A drug dealer? Was he planning to turn my granny's Victorian into a whore­house?"

"Uh . . ." Ian was momentarily caught off guard. A whorehouse? Did they even have those anymore? "No. I believe he intended to use it as a private residence since that's the way its zoned, but it's not really my job to grill him on his specific intentions."

"What is your job anyway? I thought you were a lawyer. Why are you selling real estate?"

Ian shifted in his chair, annoyed. He wasn't there to present her with his resume. "I'm not selling or buying real estate. I am a properties attorney. My client uses me to do his contracts instead of a real-estate agent."

"Why?"

Ian wasn't exactly sure how to explain that he worked for mil­lionaires, who had no patience for real-estate agents, but he was saved from having to answer when something brushed against his leg. He glanced down and saw a black cat. Big surprise that Bree would make that her pet of choice. But he liked cats, so he reached down and scratched behind the feline's ears and was rewarded with a purr.

"Abby, get Akasha!" Bree said, nudging her sister. "You know she hates men."

Ian glanced down at the cat, who was nuzzling his pants and weaving in and out between his legs. "It's fine. I don't mind."

"She'll bite you. I'm serious. She hates men."

Ian kept scratching, and the purring kicked up a notch. "She seems to like me." And damn if he didn't feel a little sense of tri­umph over that.

"She does," Abby said, eyes wide. "Bree, do you know what that means? It means—"

"That you need to stop talking," Bree said, glaring at her sister. "Akasha is probably just waiting for the right minute to sink her claws into his leg."

Bree jumped out of her seat and got down on the floor next to him, reaching for her cat. It was an interesting twist on the current situation, and Ian didn't move, curious how the moment would play out. He just sat there with Bree moving closer and closer to his knees as she crawled around on the floor, reaching for the elusive cat, who darted away from her and around the back of Ian's chair.

"Akasha!" Bree frowned. "I'm really sorry, she really doesn't like men and I really need to get her before she—"

Bree stopped talking when the cat jumped up on his lap, kneaded her paws into his thighs, and sat down. Ian scratched Akasha again with one hand and used the other to play a little tug-of-war with the sprig of greenery in her mouth. It looked like mistletoe, oddly enough. Ian stared at it, a little unnerved. Funny how much mistletoe had factored in all of his sexual dreams about Bree. They always started with mistletoe, either hanging in a doorway, or in Bree's hands, teasing him to kiss her. And he always did, and it went to really happy and horny places after that.

It was crazy that the cat, the black cat, belonging to the self-proclaimed witch he was so attracted to, was chomping on mistle­toe. In fact, it was disturbing enough that Ian decided it was time to leave.

"So you're not interested?" he asked her, very aware of the fact that she was on her knees right in front of his knees and under dif­ferent circumstances, that would be a beautiful thing.

"Uh . . . what?" Bree looked up at him in confusion, her pale cheeks tinted pink again.

He thought it was damn cute that she blushed. Witches shouldn't blush, but he liked it when she did.

"The house," he prompted. "You're really not interested in sell­ing it?"

"The house. Right. Yes. I mean, no. No, I am definitely not in­terested in selling it. Sorry." She snatched the cat off his lap.

Only Ian was still holding the mistletoe, as was the cat, and Bree wound up effectively stretching Akasha out to her full furry length between the two of them. She gave him a pointed look, so he dropped the mistletoe.

She stood up and cuddled the cat against her chest.

Ian didn't think a dinner invitation would have any chance whatsoever of being accepted, so he stood up as well. "Thanks for your time. I'll let my client know you're not interested."

"Thanks." Bree's mouth opened like she was going to say some­thing, but then she closed it again.

The silence hung awkwardly for a second while they stared at each other for no apparent reason other than that Ian was having a hard time making his feet move him to the door. He really needed to come up with another excuse to see her. Tomorrow. But his brain wasn't cooperating and creating any plausible reason. Just when he was about to give up and save face by exiting, Abby stepped between them, breaking Ian and Bree's eye contact.

"You don't need a reason, Ian," Abby said. "You can totally stop by tomorrow."

Ian started. Had the kid read his mind or what? His feet lost their paralysis, and on that note, he waved good-bye to the women and got the hell out of there.

Chapter 2

"Abby, what are you doing?" Bree stood in her front hall watching Ian Carrington head down the snowy walk to an expensive-looking black car. "Are you just trying to embarrass the hell out of me or do you have a death wish?"

The whole ten-minute encounter with Ian had been an exercise in mortification. She couldn't even fathom why she had been so intent on getting Akasha from him. But she had thought the cat would bite or scratch him, and the thought of the meticulous Ian Carrington having his pricey pants torn into by her cat had pan­icked her. Of course, it had wound up being far more embarrassing to be crawling around on the floor in front of him, her eyes level with his crotch. She should have just let the damn cat sink her claws into his thigh.

"What?" Abby looked entirely unremorseful. "He's the dude I saw in the cards, and you're just blowing him off. I had to try and do something so you don't screw up the whole rest of your life."

Bree shuddered, a lifetime of attachment to such a pompous overachiever too horrific to contemplate. Though she had to admit, if she were honest, the way he stared at her, like he wanted to take off her clothes and devote all of his intensity to her body, was hot. Just a little. Okay, a lot. It was bizarre, given she didn't really like him, but her naughty bits seemed to think he could do a thing or two for her, because he turned her on, no doubt about it.

"I am not going to fall in love with that guy. But you were right about one thing—he does want to have sex with me. I picked up on that empathically."

Charlotte snorted. "You don't have to be empathic or psychic to figure that out. He was virtually drooling over your butt."

Bree involuntarily grabbed her backside. "He was? Ohmigod, are you serious?"

Her sisters both nodded, Charlotte solemn, Abby gleeful.

"When did he do that?" And more importantly, how had her butt looked?

"When you were walking down the hall to the kitchen," Char­lotte said.

Damn herself for wearing such a tight skirt. "Did I look okay? I mean, am I having a good-ass day or a bad-ass day? God, this is awful."

Charlotte laughed. "What the hell is a good-ass day?"

Bree saw nothing amusing about it. "You know, when your butt looks good in whatever you're wearing, when it's sort of living up to its fullest potential, being the best your butt can be." Duh.

But her sister looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "That is the freakiest thing I've ever heard you say, and you've said a lot of weird things over the years."

"Your butt looked great," Abby told her.

"See? Abby gets it." And Bree was marginally reassured. She didn't want to want Ian, and she didn't want him looking at her and not wanting her either.

"So we all know he wants to have sex with you, but the question is, do you want to have sex with him?" Charlotte pinned her with a hard stare. "And be honest."

Did she have to be? Bree bit her lip, something she never did. Exasperated, with herself, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't know. Maybe. He's totally not my type, and I know I don't want to date him, but I can admit that I find him attractive in the most basic animalistic sort of way." And his intensity fascinated her, but she was not going to say that out loud.

This was not the way she had pictured her day. It was supposed to be a normal day, in which she lamented her celibate status but simultaneously applauded her independence, when she spent time with her sisters putting up a Christmas tree and ate those satanically delicious butter cookies Charlotte insisted on baking.

"So just do him," Abby said. "It's a good jumping point."

When had her baby sister become so outrageous? Wait. Abby had always been that way. Maybe it was the result of being con­ceived on a grave in the cemetery, but Bree should realize that lit­erally anything could come out of Abby's mouth at any given mo­ment.

"I can't just 'do him.' "

"Why not?" Charlotte asked.

And that was her conservative sister speaking. It boggled the mind. "Because," she said in exasperation. "I can't."

"Why not?" Charlotte asked, shrugging.

"Well . . ." That was a good question. Why couldn't she really? She knew he wanted her. Lust was radiating all over his aura. She really was attracted to him, too, for whatever random reason.

But it seemed like such a risk, such a messy situation to walk into voluntarily. How would they even get from where they were to there, and if they did, what happened afterward? It sounded like a potential disaster. "Because . . ."

Akasha rubbed against her leg, the mistletoe still in its mouth. Inspiration struck. "Because it was the mistletoe that made him think he's into me. It's not real."

That should get her out of having to deal with it, and it might even be true. Even if Ian had arrived at the door looking like he wanted to eat her way before he'd had any contact with the lust-spell-loaded mistletoe.

"That's lame. When he comes back tomorrow I think you should go for it," Abby said.

"He's not going to come here tomorrow. He's probably going back to Chicago."

And she could forget all about Ian Carrington and his sexy brown eyes.

Except he didn't go back to Chicago.

Bree's stomach dropped when twenty-four hours later her doorbell rang and a peek out her front window showed none other than Ian standing on her doorstep again. Damn. How was that even possible? And she was totally alone. Charlotte was at work, and Abby was at their parents' house. Alone was bad. Dangerous. A test of her self-control, which—she had to admit—didn't seem all that intact.

At least she was wearing a loose skirt and a very unsexy black cardigan. That would help her feel less naked when he looked at her. Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door. The cardi­gan was insufficient armor. She still felt naked under his intense scrutiny.

"Hi." She tried to smile, but didn't quite manage more than a tight-lipped upturn.

"Hi. Sorry to bother you again, but my client has countered with another offer. Can I come in?"

That threw her off. Another offer on her house? That was ran­dom. "Sure."

It was a long walk down the hall to the kitchen, and Bree's cheeks burned as she wondered if Ian was looking at her butt. It made her self-conscious, torn between wanting to put some effort into rolling her hips to show off her assets and wanting to cover herself with her hands. In the end, she tried really hard to just walk normally, but doubted she succeeded.

"Another offer? What does that mean exactly?" she asked him, gesturing for him to have a seat.

"It means that when I told my client you were not interested in selling, he upped the amount of his offer." Ian pulled out a piece of paper and pushed it over to her.

Bree's mouth went dry when she saw the dollar amount in black-and-white. "This is insane." It was a lot of money. She never would have guessed her grandmother's house was worth that much.

"It's a very respectable offer."

Bree glanced up at Ian. She couldn't tell if he cared one way or the other if she agreed to the offer. He had a poker face that was un­nerving. Even his emotions, his aura, revealed nothing to her of his opinion about the house. But the sexual interest was there again. It was intense and vibrant, and it made her want to run away at the same time that it fired up every neuron in her body. He had the most compelling and intense eyes, and she felt seriously off kilter around him.

"I think it's actually too much. But that's irrelevant because I'm not going to sell. It's my grandmother's house." Bree couldn't part with the remaining piece of her grandmother, the woman who had taught her tarot and witchcraft. Charlotte had inherited their grandmother's tea shop, and had promptly turned it into a profit­able coffee shop. That had been the smart, practical thing to do, but Bree couldn't help but miss the tea shop and its pleasant memories. She was sentimental in the extreme, and she wasn't going to sell the house just for the cash. She'd rather have that connection to her grandma indefinitely.

"I know."

"You know that it's my grandmother's house?"

"Yes. And I know that you won't sell it. But my client is wealthy and stubborn and used to getting what he wants. He'll keep mak­ing offers, and I'm obligated to deliver them. I'm sorry."

Ian didn't look sorry, exactly. He looked more ambivalent than anything. Like he was used to doing his job, following through on rich men's whims, and the outcome didn't much matter. It un­nerved Bree a little, made her wonder who exactly Ian Carrington was and what he stood for. "It's okay. He can keep offering, but I'll just keep saying no. Seems like a waste of time, but I understand people are irrational."

As was her attraction to the man in front of her.

But she could also admit that she had spent most of her life liv­ing by emotion, not logic, so maybe her sisters were right. Maybe she needed to just embrace the idea of an affair with Ian. See where it led, if anywhere. Even if it went nowhere, she had a sneaking suspicion the sex would be well worth it.

"Well, I won't take up any more of your time then." Ian tucked his paper away and stood up.

That was it? Bree frowned. Here she had virtually just decided that she could have sex with him, and he was just going to leave without asking her out or at least hitting on her or flirting?

She knew he wanted her. Knew it. It was irrefutable.

Yet he wasn't going to act on it? That was all sorts of wrong.

As was the fact that she was offended by his lack of action. The whole thing was ridiculous.

"Okay. Thanks." She had no idea what the hell she was thanking him for, but she was at a loss as to what else to say.

In sixty seconds he was down the hall and pausing on her porch right outside the front door. "Good-bye," he said. Then he smiled at her.

It was the first time she'd ever seen him smile, and it was dev­astating in its charm and sensuality. It revealed straight and white teeth and crooked up a little in the corner. It was a smile that said he knew what she was thinking, the kind of smile that could bring women to their knees, and most of all, it was the smile of a man who knew how to please a woman.

So Bree shut the door on his sexy face.

She didn't feel like playing games.

Or maybe she was offended that he could want her physically but had reservations about liking her, as a person.

Of course, she was doing the same thing about him. Wanting his body but not necessarily him.

Which made the whole damn thing too complicated. She was letting it go. Done with it.

But she still found herself wandering back into the kitchen and pulling out her tarot cards. Maybe they would reveal to her why, exactly, a sexy lawyer from Chicago had popped into her life, only to pop right back out.

Only all she could seem to see in the cards was a future real-estate transaction, which was totally boring, and totally wrong. She was not going to sell her house to Ian Carrington's rich client.

"Never," she said out loud to the spread in front of her, pushing all the cards back into a pile and wondering if she had any ice cream in the freezer.

Cold outside or not, she could use a little comfort from the carton.

Chapter 3

Ian was pulling in the driveway of the bed-and-breakfast he was staying in, annoyed with himself for wimping out and not asking Bree to dinner, when he sensed movement in the car with him. He glanced over to the passenger seat and slammed on the brakes.

"What the hell?"

Bree's cat was sitting on the seat, staring up at him calmly, mis­tletoe dangling from her mouth.

"How did you get into my car?" The doors had been shut at Bree's house. Locked. He was positive of that. Even if he had, just this one time, inadvertently forgotten to lock it, it wasn't like the cat could open car doors by herself.

But Akasha wasn't answering him, thank God, and he had no choice but to put the car in reverse and drive back to Bree's. Ian glanced over at the cat every few seconds, wary of her. He didn't believe in magic or witches or the power of black cats.

Nonetheless, he had a feline Houdini miraculously sitting next to him at the end of a five-minute drive, and it was weirding him out. Especially since the cat just stared at him, that sprig of green­ery dangling from her mouth, her big green eyes unblinking.

"What?" Ian asked her in irritation. "You look stupid with that thing hanging from your mouth, you know."

Akasha dropped the mistletoe onto the seat.

Ian felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Man, he needed to get out of this town. Cuttersville billed itself as Ohio's Most Haunted Town, and he had always thought it was a ridiculous des­ignation. Now he was struggling with the illogic of certain things, like the dreams he'd been having and this crazy-ass cat.

"Okay, you're home. Bree is probably wondering where the hell you are." Ian parked his car in Bree's driveway and gave a sigh as he glanced up at the big Victorian. It was a cool house, totally different from his streamlined, modern apartment, reminding him a bit of the house in which he'd grown up, though his mother's farmhouse had been more shabby than architecturally intriguing. But this Victorian was pretty and complicated, somewhat brooding and mysterious. The alleged witch who lived there shared the same characteristics with her house, and Ian doubted she was going to be thrilled to see him again. She didn't seem to like him, nor did she seem to be suffering from the same overpowering lust that he was. Unfortunately.

Grabbing the cat in a firm grip, Ian carried her up the walk and rang the bell.

Bree answered the door with a frown. "What are you doing with Akasha?"

Not much of a greeting. Yeah, she so wasn't interested in him. She held her hands out for her pet, and Ian turned the cat over.

"She was in my car . . . it was the weirdest thing. I drove all the way through town and looked over, and suddenly she was just sitting on the passenger seat." He still couldn't imagine how it had happened, but there it was.

Bree's eyebrows rose. "You can't be serious."

"Totally. I have no idea how it could have happened, but I swear to God, she was suddenly just there with me."

"Yeah, because cats just open car doors and jump in." Bree rolled her eyes.

Ian frowned back. "I know it's insane," he said in irritation. "But she was in my car, and I didn't put her there."

"Whatever."

There was no single word more designed to incite Ian's anger. He couldn't stand it when people said that to him. It catapulted him back to childhood, when his older sister would toss "whatever" at him a hundred times a day. It made him feel dismissed, humili­ated. So he immediately reacted. "What, you think I swiped your damn cat or something?"

"That certainly seems more plausible than my cat somehow opening my front door and your car door—and closing both again, I might add—in the five minutes you and I sat in my kitchen. It's ridiculous."

"So is the idea that I would steal your cat, and then bring her right back. What kind of moronic theft is that?" Ian's indignation rose. What, like he'd steal a freakin' cat? "And why would I want your cat anyway?"

"I have no idea. Nor do I know why your client wants my house. But neither of you can have either."

She started to close the door on him yet again, but Ian stuck his palm out and held it open. Bree tried to push harder, but he was stronger. He was not a cat thief. "I didn't take your cat. I don't want your cat." Really. He didn't.

"What do you want?" she asked acidly.

"You," Ian said. Hell, he figured he hadn't risen to success from poverty based on being passive. He had always been aggressive in going after what he wanted, and Bree shouldn't be any different.

"Excuse me?" She blinked, looking more shocked than outraged.

Ian met her gaze. "I am attracted to you, and I'm hoping you'll agree to go to dinner with me."

There was a long pause, during which Ian was aware that he was still standing on the front porch and his nuts were going numb while she stared at him, and he was just about resigned to rejection when Bree nodded.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Ian was shocked into parroting her, but he rallied. "Okay, great. Fabulous. I'm only in town for a few more days, so are you busy tonight?"

"Tonight would work."

Said she with zero enthusiasm. Very ego-boosting. But she had agreed to dinner, so he was going to roll with it. "Let me have your number . . . I'll make some reservations and call you." Ian pulled out his cell phone.

Bree gave a smile. "You don't really need reservations in Cuttersville."

But she gave him her number anyway, reciting it quickly, test­ing the speed of Ian's typing.

"I'd take your number, but my phone is upstairs."

"I'll call it," he said. "So it's in your phone." He hit send for the number she had just given him and let it ring until the voice mail picked up. He smiled at her as he spoke into his phone. "Hi, this is Ian Carrington calling for Bree Murphy to see if we can change our dinner plans to a late lunch. I'd rather not wait to see you."

It was a risk, throwing his interest so clearly out there, and he watched her reaction closely, but Bree didn't balk. She just raised an eyebrow. He continued, "So let me know what you think, and I look forward to hearing from you." He hung up his phone.

"You don't have a lot of patience, do you?" she asked, still hold­ing her cat. It didn't sound like a censure, just curiosity.

"No, I suppose not. I want what I want."

And he wanted her. The unspoken words hung in the air be­tween them.

Finally, Bree gave an exasperated sigh. "Would you get into the house? We're letting out all the heat while you come on strong."

Ian stepped forward. "Too strong?"

Bree shut the door behind him. "I haven't decided yet if I'm ap­palled or if I like it. I'll let you know."

Ian laughed. "Well, that's honest."

She didn't laugh with him, just stared searchingly at him. "Why did you ask me out? I'm not your type at all."

"You're not like women I usually date, that's true. But that doesn't mean I can't look at you and think you're beautiful . . . it doesn't mean I can't look at you and be intrigued as to who you are." And maybe there was logic to his attraction after all. It was the fascination of someone who lived so differently from him, who embraced her different perspective of the universe and didn't apolo­gize for it. He wanted to learn more about her, maybe even craved the sense of "realness" that she offered.

"I have no idea what to say to that," she said. "I want to say something witty and flirtatious, but that's not really me."

"What are you then?"

"Brutally honest. I say whatever the hell I'm thinking."

"Nothing wrong with that." Ian watched Bree standing in the hallway with her cat still tightly held in her arms. "What are you thinking now?" This was uncharted territory for him. It was 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, and he barely knew Bree at all. He had no idea where to go from there, and he didn't think she would appreciate it if he did what he really wanted to do, which was kiss her.

She shrugged. "I'm actually desperately wishing I had brushed my teeth after I ate a cottage-cheese snack because I have a feeling you're going to kiss me at some point before you leave."

Ian laughed. "I'd certainly like to. And a little cottage cheese won't stop me." He put his hand on the small of her back, wanting to be closer to her. "But why don't you give me a tour of the house? I'd really love to see the whole place, and you can make a quick pit stop for your toothbrush if it will make you feel better."

Bree glanced up at him over her shoulder, her eyes dark and mysterious under her long lashes. "This is a very strange and ran­dom date."

"Is it freaking you out?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, it is me," he told her truthfully. "This isn't the way I usu­ally initiate a relationship."

"Then why are you doing it?" she asked.

Bree had put the cat down finally, and she was facing him. Her hair was sliding across her cheek and sticking to her moist, crimson lips. Ian reached out and pulled the hair free and tucked it behind her ear, reveling in the satin slide across his fingertips. It had been a while since he had touched a woman, and there was a paradoxical quality to Bree that he loved. She was strong and bold, yet wonder­fully feminine and vulnerable at the same time.

"Because I can't stop myself." And he ignored the fact that he had just told her she could sneak off and brush her teeth before a kiss, and he went for one anyway. A hand on the back of her neck, Ian leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, lightly. They fit to­gether well, comfortably, and he felt her acquiescence, felt her lean toward him to meet his mouth.

Ian forced himself to keep it short, to just linger for a fleeting moment, then pull back. He didn't want to go any faster than he already was and have her balk on him. Bree gave a delicious sigh when he stepped away from her, her eyes dark and mysterious, her lips shiny. Wiping away the lip gloss that had transferred from her lips to his, Ian said, "I'm ready for my tour of the house. Starting with . . ."

Her eyebrows rose in censure as if she clearly expected him to say the bedroom.

"The living room. I'd like to see the fireplace." He smiled broadly.

They'd get to the bedroom eventually.

Bree watched Ian carefully. She wasn't used to men like him at all. Her ex-boyfriends had all been profuse in their atten­tions and loud about their neediness. None had been smooth or charming. Ian was both, and she was having trouble seeing what was coming around the corner with him. He kept startling her, and it was starting to annoy her that she constantly felt off-kilter, out of control. The advantage to the men in her past had been that she had always been the strong one, not vice versa. Ian and she were more evenly matched, and she didn't know quite what to do with it.

So she sucked in a breath, gathered her resolve—because she was now determined to have sex with Ian Carrington on her own terms—and said, "Sure. I assumed the fireplace was the first thing you'd want to see."

He laughed as he followed her, Akasha trotting along beside him.

So much for feline loyalty. It obviously didn't exist because Aka­sha, who to that point had never tolerated a man in her house, was clearly smitten with Ian.

Bree stopped just inside the main living area on the first floor, the room her grandmother had always referred to as the parlor. It was a large room, with two stained-glass windows and a fireplace with a very ornate carved mantel from which Abby had hung three sprigs of mistletoe. Bree said, "The house was built in 1888. All the woodwork is original, and so is the fireplace, though we can't burn wood in it. It's not up to code."

Though she had to admit she burned her Yule log there every Winter Solstice and so far no one had seemed to notice, and she hadn't burned the house down. But she wasn't really willing to take a chance on a roaring fire.

Ian had wandered into the middle of the room and stopped, turning a full 360 slowly. He looked puzzled, and Bree waited for a response, content just to look at him. He was so freaking good-looking, oozing confidence and success. His hair was very short yet somehow still managed to convey a sense of style, the front sticking up slightly. He was dressed more casually than the day before, his jeans distressed in all the right places, his shoes well-worn leather. He still had his coat on, but she could see his wine-colored button-up shirt with a subtle stripe, untucked, casual, but not the slightest bit sloppy. Bree had never been to Chicago, but she could picture him there, living in a high-rise apartment, walking down busy streets at a fast clip, talking on his cell phone.

"Wow," he said.

"Wow what?" The room wasn't that exciting. Bree was well aware the furniture was old and worn and that the overcast Decem­ber sky lent a gloomy aspect to the room despite its being midafternoon.

"I'm having a serious case of deja vu." Ian moved to the fireplace and fingered one of the mistletoe bunches hanging there.

Bree fought the urge to smack his hand away. Mistletoe, with all its sexual implications, was not what either of them needed at the moment. Or maybe it was.

"I don't believe in deja vu," she said. "I think it's really that our sixth sense sometimes glimpses pieces of our future, then when we see them in actuality we recognize them as familiar, as if they're part of the past. But they're really our recognition of what our sub­conscious already told us was going to occur."

She expected him to disagree, since Ian didn't seem like he be­lieved in anything but the present, but he surprised her.

"That's an interesting theory. But for me, this is deja vu because I've seen this room in a dream. Right down to the three sprigs of mistletoe over this very fireplace mantel." He touched the grape­vines that had been carved in the wood. "These grapevines. It's un­real how clearly I saw it all."

Bree sucked in her breath. "You saw this room in a dream? With mistletoe?" What the hell did that mean?

"Yes." Ian turned and looked at her, and those dark eyes studied her. "I don't believe in anything but logic, but I can't explain this. I've been dreaming about this room, not once, not twice, but over and over."

"For how long?"

"A year. And it always looked just like this, decorated for Christ­mas. The tree, the mistletoe."

A shiver raced up Bree's spine. It had been a year since they had met. "We just hung the mistletoe yesterday."

"That's really weird," he said, his voice thoughtful, his mouth turning down in a frown. He peeled off his jacket and tossed it on the sofa, moving around the room, studying all angles, all objects.

It was clear he wanted an explanation, and Bree had none to give him. "What happens in the dreams?"

But Ian just shook his head. "It's personal."

Whatever the hell that meant.

His hand was on an ornament on her tree, an innocuous sparrow that had no particular meaning to Bree other than it was meant to represent the power of nature in the smallest things, and he pulled it forward, stroking the faux feathers. Recognition hit Bree in a powerful wave, and she couldn't prevent a gasp from escaping her mouth

"Ohmigod," she whispered.

"What?" He glanced back at her.

Now it was her turn to shake her head. She couldn't say it out loud. She couldn't admit that this was in fact her recurring dream as well, that it always started with the back of a man's head bent over her Christmas tree. That he always turned, his face in shadow so she couldn't see his features, and he came over to her and did de­licious things to her body. That he shattered her with orgasm after orgasm, and she always woke up frustrated and aching with want for the reality of her dream.

"This is an unusual tree," he said, touching a pinecone orna­ment. "It's very natural-looking. I like it."

"It's a family tradition, based on witchcraft. You fill the tree with ornaments that appreciate nature, but also with ornaments that represent all your hopes and aspirations for the upcoming year. You fill it with symbols of that which you want to bring into your life." Bree swallowed hard, still reeling from the realization that it had in fact been Ian that she had been dreaming about so intensely. It had to be him. He was doing just what the man in her dreams did, and her body was already poised, anticipating a touch.

He murmured, "Really? That's very cool. I like that. What does this one mean?"

Bree squinted to focus, not really caring about conversation but striving to find normalcy in the situation. Ian was pointing to a diploma ornament.

"That's Abby's. She's graduating this year and hopefully head­ing off to college. She's incredibly book smart and I think she'll do well in college."

"And this one?" Ian fingered a baby carriage.

Bree touched her throat, a sudden tightness forcing her to breathe deeply. "That one's Charlotte's. She and Will would like to have a baby."

"I hope they're successful."

"Thank you. Me, too. They'll be fabulous parents."

Akasha came over to Bree and rubbed against her leg, dropping something from her mouth. Bree bent over absently and picked it up, unnerved by the surreal quality of being there with Ian, know­ing that in her dreams she had felt him inside her, known the slide of his tongue over her most intimate places. It wasn't until she was standing again that she realized she had retrieved the battered mistletoe that Akasha had been dragging around.

Of course.

Ian turned to her. "Which ornament is yours? What is it that you want to bring into your life in the new year?"

"I didn't have any specific needs or wants," she whispered, clutching the mistletoe to her chest. "I just wanted contentment, and personal growth." She would never admit that she had wanted a man, a partner, a fulfilling and satisfying relationship with some­one who simply wanted her but didn't need her.

Ian looked at the mistletoe she was fondling desperately for lack of anything better to do with her hands.

He shook his head. "Damn it, Bree, this is unreal . . ."

"What do you mean?"

"That's what you do in my dream."

"In your dream?" she asked stupidly, well aware that he was now walking toward her, and she was equal parts aroused and terrified. "I'm in your dream?"

"Yes." Ian stopped in front of her and ran his fingers down the side of her hair. "You hold that mistletoe, just like that, right before we make love, right here, in this room, in front of that fireplace."

Whoa. That was the way her dream always went. "Ian . . ." She had no idea what to say, and her tongue suddenly felt six sizes too big for her mouth. How the hell could they, virtual strangers, hun­dreds of miles apart, have been having the same dream?

"Bree."

He kissed her, not like before, but with passion and purpose. It took her breath away, the feel of his hands in her hair, his body warm and close to hers, his mouth taking without hesitation, with delicious skill and a definite knowledge. He knew her mouth and she knew his. They fit together, as though their lips had pleasured each other many times before, and deep inside Bree, she felt the burning of desire, knowing that in some way they had. They knew each other from their dreams, and this wasn't new, but was des­tiny.

"You taste so good, just like I imagined," he said, his lips brush­ing across the corners of her mouth, up her jaw, and kissing her earlobe.

Bree shivered, her fingers digging into his shoulders, mistletoe still bunched and crushed in her left hand. He said that in her dreams. You taste so good. She had always believed in the power of magick, but this was unbelievable, scary, titillating. It was hard to accept that it was real, and yet it was so very easy to just roll with it, to accept the sensuality of the moment, to know where it was going to lead. They both knew where it was going, because they had both seen it, felt it already.

"Ian, I have a confession to make."

"Yeah?" He was breathing in the scent of her hair while his fin­gers slipped under her shirt to stroke the small of her back.

"I've been having the same dream."

He pulled back and stared at her. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." She nodded, playing with the collar of his shirt ner­vously, her fingertips tugging then smoothing. "I didn't know it was you . . . your face is always in shadow. But when you bent over the tree and looked at me, I knew it was you. And you always walk towards me and kiss me."

"While you're holding mistletoe."

"Yes."

"And then we undress each other." Ian's eyes had darkened and his voice had lowered.

Bree swallowed hard. "Yes. Then you pull the quilt off the sofa . . ."

"And lay it down, then you down on it, in front of the fireplace. Then I kiss you from head to toe, and here." His knee touched be­tween her thighs. "And you beg for more."

He did know this dream. "Yes, that's the way it goes."

Ian shook his head. "Amazing. Strange, freakish, weird as hell, in­credible . . . and now we're going to live out our dream, aren't we?"

Absolutely. Or she was going to puddle to the floor in a mass of unrequited lust. "Yes."

"Is the dream good for you?" he asked, a small smile on his face.

"Oh yeah."

"Then let's make reality even better."

Chapter 4

Ian was shocked that Bree had been having the same dream, but at the same time it made sense, in its own very strange way. It wasn't even remotely logical, but it was obviously very real, that she knew exactly how his dreams played out, that he didn't even hesitate to take action.

He wanted her, a full year's worth of longing, and in that way he did know her. And she had said it had been good for her asleep, so he sure in hell wanted to live up to that awake. Ian kissed Bree, and this time she opened her mouth for him, so that Ian could take her with his tongue, taste her fully, and appreciate the rush of her excited breath past his ear.

Reality was definitely better than fantasy. He had never been able to fully feel the softness of her lips, the smoothness of her back as he held her, the press of her breasts against his chest. Bree was digging her fingers into his shoulders, and he could smell the ev­ergreen scent as she crushed the mistletoe against him. He stepped back, panting, and marveled at how red her lips were naturally, now shiny and wet from his kisses. He had decimated all of her lip gloss, and yet her mouth was still plump and richly rosy. God, she was just beautiful.

Reaching for her, Ian took her turtleneck by the bottom and pulled it up and over her head. It got caught on her head, and he laughed when she let out an indelicate curse.

"I'm stuck." She sounded more amused than angry as she shook her head back and forth and reached up to grapple with the shirt.

"I'm sorry, I've got it." Ian tugged harder, and the shirt finally popped up and off, leaving her hair plastered all over her face and sticking up with static. She looked adorable, and Ian smoothed the dark strands back down, cupping her cheeks and kissing her softly.

She unbuttoned his shirt while they kissed, and Ian sucked in his breath as she ran her fingers over his bare flesh.

"You're lean but it's obvious you work out," she said, rushing over the planes of his muscles and down his navel to the button on his jeans, making his body react enthusiastically. "You have definition."

"I should hope so after all the work I put into it." Ian leaned forward and sucked on the creamy flesh rising from the top of Bree's black satin bra. He loved that contrast of light flesh and dark cloth­ing. It showed off the pureness of her ivory skin.

"I don't work out."

"I don't care." What he had seen looked beautiful to him, not overly thin, not buff, just soft female flesh, with the curves in all the right places. Ian found the zipper on the side of her skirt and yanked it down. A hand inside it, and he managed to knock the clothing off her hips and to the floor. Ian pulled back slightly to just drink her in, standing in front of him in her bra and panties, her hair sliding across her face and down over her shoulders.

"You're absolutely stunning," he said. "I don't have the words to describe your beauty, Bree, I really don't."

Even though her cheeks pinkened, she just said, "Thank you." Then ripped his shirt down his arms and tossed it to the floor.

Whoa. That was fucking hot. Ian had thought that was only his fantasy in the dreams, but apparently it was Bree's as well, because her eyes were burning brightly with desire. "Can you tear my jeans off like that, too?" he asked.

"I can try."

That was all a man could ask for.

The pants weren't as easy as the shirt, but Bree did manage to get them down to his ankles so he could step out of them. She also man­aged to grope across his erection along the way, and if the sly smile on her face was any indication, she damn well had done it on purpose.

"Does it meet your standards?" he asked.

"Mmm-hmm." Bree licked her bottom lip.

Ian groaned and reached back and yanked the quilt off the sofa. He dropped it on the floor in front of the fireplace and paused. He looked at Bree. "Is there a fire burning in your dreams?"

Her eyes widened. "Yes. But like I said, we can't use the fire­place. I don't even have any wood."

"Weird." Ian also didn't remember them using a condom in his dreams, but he retrieved one from his wallet and tossed it down on the quilt. This was real. Better. "It doesn't matter."

He stood in front of her for a minute, tracing his fingers down her shoulders, her arms, across her stomach and to the waistband of her panties. The anticipation was exciting, painful. He felt like he had waited, well, a whole year for this. So he kissed her, pulling her down onto the lumpy quilt, catching her head before it hit the floor. Part of him wanted to ask her if she was sure, but he didn't want the answer to be no, so he said nothing and trusted that she would stop him if she changed her mind or had second thoughts.

Ian went on his knees, one on either side of her legs, and kissed Bree, closing his eyes to savor. He kissed her neck, burying his hands in her silky hair, and breathed in her scent. She smelled ex­otic, like spices you'd find in the pantry, and he licked her shoulder, sucking her clavicle.

Bree made a small sound of surprise, but Ian didn't look up at her face. He cruised down to her breasts, which rose and fell in time with her quickening breathing. Reaching behind her back, Ian un­did her bra and slid the straps down, pulling the whole thing to her waist and wrists. Bree was swallowing hard, her body moving restlessly, and he suspected it was nervousness, so Ian only allowed himself a brief glimpse at her rounded, pale breasts before covering a dusky nipple with his mouth.

He felt like he already knew her body in a weird sort of way since he had made love to her over and over in his dreams, so he went on instinct, the familiar tug and suck and pull garnering the same reaction from her in reality that it had so many nights in his sleep. Bree dug her fingernails into his back and made delightful moans of encouragement that spurred him on, and he switched from one breast to the other and back again until her nipples were shiny and taut from his attention. His erection was bumping against her in­ner thighs, and she moved against him, lifting her hips to grind them together.

Instead of giving her what she was asking for, he pulled back so they were no longer in contact, and he had the pleasure of hearing her disappointed mewl. But the sound cut off when he took her panties and peeled them down, then spread her legs by pushing her knees apart. He paused a moment then, just to check his control, and to look at her. She had her arms above her head, her eyes half-closed, her full lips open, black hair tumbling over her pale skin. When he bent over and kissed her, right on her clitoris, she jerked a little on the quilt. Glancing up the length of her, Ian moaned himself when he saw she had taken a finger and was biting the tip, the black fingernails of her other fingers splayed across her jaw.

She was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

"I find you so beautiful," he said, and before she could reply, Ian buried his mouth between her thighs.

He stroked across her warm, moist flesh, and dipped his tongue inside her, the way he knew, just knew she would like.

When he pulled back, she said it just like she did in his dreams, "More. Please. More."

He could do that. He could do this all day and all night, taste her tangy sweetness and listen to her rhythmic cries of pleasure. When her thighs tensed, he pulled back, preventing her from an or­gasm. Then he went back, licking and sucking, his body taut with desire, aching with the urge to possess her, but his control holding him back. He wanted to take her there again and again, so that she was insensible with want, then only then would he push inside her body. The floor was hard on his knees, a cool draft wafting over them, raising goose bumps on Bree's dewy skin, but he just pulled the quilt around her sides and kept going.

There was no awkwardness, no holding back, no first-time fumbles or strokes that caused zero reaction. Everything he did turned Bree on, and every sound, every move she made heightened his own arousal. They did know each other, they knew the steps to this dance, they knew where they were going and how to get there. Ian didn't stop to think about it, but just felt, just let it go, just focused on her body and its reaction and how to make the most of her acute pleasure.

When her moans were trailing off, her breathing and arousal so intense that her voice was raspy and losing projection, her thighs trembling, her eyes closed, arms slack against her sides, head turn­ing restlessly from side to side as he ate at her, Ian knew it was time. Shucking his boxers, he used one hand to stroke her and the other to clumsily unroll the condom.

Then as he poised over her, he spoke the only words he ever remembered saying in his dreams. "Open your eyes, Bree. Look at me."

She did, her eyes a midnight blue, darkened with desire, glassy and bright in the waning afternoon light. "Ian," she said, voice husky.

Something about the way she said his name, the way she looked up at him, with trust and desire, twisted things inside Ian, and he felt a wave of possessiveness roll over him. This wasn't about just now, this was about him and Bree, being together, starting some­thing powerful and intimate and sensual. He wanted her, in all the ways that mattered.

And it was real.

Bree's breath caught at the look on Ian's face. He looked fierce, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip, his biceps taut from holding himself over her. He had a sense of power about him, a control, a primal warrior quality about him. She never would have thought that, but now that she saw him, knew him on an intimate level, she knew it made perfect sense. He was successful because of those qualities, and right at the moment he was dedicated to driv­ing her insane with want.

She didn't know how, or maybe she did in its unbelievable way, but he knew her body, understood what she liked without her speaking a word, and he had her primed and on the edge. If he had let her, she would have come six times already, but he had pulled back, kept her from an orgasm over and over, so that her body felt oversensitive, her mind liquid puree.

When he pushed inside her with a hard thrust, Bree knew it was over, that she couldn't stop it any longer, and she shattered, her back arching, her body clenching around him. He lengthened her orgasm by stroking in and out at the perfect pace, not too fast, not too slow, so that she could close her eyes and enjoy the puls­ing ecstasy on and on, until she was fairly certain she had stopped breathing, had died, and had risen above her body to another plane of existence.

Could someone say holy shit? Bree pried her dry eyes open and stared up at Ian, her body jellied and slack on the quilt, his erection still hard and intimate inside of her, sparking little postorgasmic tremors. He was biting his lip, which she found endearing, and be­cause he had done so right by her, Bree spread her legs farther and tipped her hips, so that he would go deeper.

In appreciation for her efforts, he gave her a low moan, then thrust harder, sliding her backwards on the quilt. She knew when he was going to come, saw it on his face, felt it in his pause inside her, understood that for whatever reason, she knew this man sexu­ally, had a connection that was raw and intense and loaded with passion. When he collapsed on her chest, she welcomed his weight, enjoying the way he panted in her ear, and stroked her hair back from her face.

He stayed inside her while they both fought for air, and Bree tried to restore her heart rate to something less than a humming­bird's. She had no idea what to say, but the silence didn't feel un­comfortable. She could actually feel his smile, even without look­ing. It was there on his face, and she could feel it and hear it, and it made her smile in return.

It was three in the afternoon, and she was naked on the hardwood floor in front of her Christmas tree with a man she barely knew, and she felt nothing but contentment and a sensual satisfaction.

"Ow," Ian said, pulling out of her:

"Ow? Don't tell me that hurts."

"Well, it does, figuratively, but the reason I said 'ow' is because your cat just walked across my ass, claws out."

"Are you serious?" Bree tried to glance around Ian's shoulders for Akasha. "I didn't feel anything."

"That's because she walked on my ass, not yours." Ian kissed Bree's forehead and rolled onto his back next to her with a sigh.

Bree spotted her cat then, down by Ian's feet, looking up at her calmly, the mistletoe in her mouth. "Oh. She wanted what has be­come her new favorite chew toy."

"She definitely has a thing for mistletoe."

"I think I do now, too." Bree grinned at Ian. "It seems to be working for me."

He grinned back. "It's doing really positive things for me as well."

Bree would have been content to just lie naked with him for a while, but it was December, and she lived in a drafty old house. A wicked breeze was whistling in from the nonfunctioning fireplace and rushing over her flushed skin, making her shiver. The quilt was no protection since she couldn't pull it fully over them or they'd wind up on the bare floor. She was about to give in to the inevitable and tell Ian they needed clothes or a bed or a hot shower, when he spoke first.

"I'm sorry, you're cold, aren't you? Here, stand up, and we'll wrap you in the quilt." Ian stood up, giving her a hell of a view of his tight butt, and reached his hand out to help her up.

It was such a small thing. Such an obvious thing. He knew she was cold, felt her shiver, wanted to fix it. No big deal. Common courtesy, the sign of an observant man. It was no big deal. Yet Bree could count on one hand the number of times the men she had dated had paid attention to her needs or wants on that level. It just showed her that her baby sister was right—she had definitely been dating the wrong sorts of men, and no matter what happened with Ian, he had shown her that she was done fixing broken men. She wanted a partnership, a mutual respect in a relationship.

"Thanks." Before she could even consider the fact that she was standing naked in front of him and her giant picture window fac­ing Main Street, Ian had her bundled up in the quilt papoose style, disregarding his own lack of clothes.

"Should we finish my tour of the house or do you want to go get that late lunch I promised you?"

He was holding the front of the quilt closed and dusting little kisses on the side of her mouth. Bree felt herself warming up, from the inside out. He was seriously cute, and she liked that he wasn't trying to run out on her now that they'd had sex. She was hungry, but somehow the idea of leaving her house with Ian, going out in public minutes after they'd touched each other in such intimacy, made her feel weird.

Which meant she needed to get a grip and just do it. She was a grown woman, and dating—if they could call it that—a lawyer from Chicago was not a dirty little secret. "Food is good."

"You're good." Ian gave her a searing kiss, the tangy taste of sex still in his mouth.

Bree freed her hands from the blanket and placed them directly on his bare butt. Nice and tight. She squeezed lightly, and he bumped forward against her.

"Can I pick up some stuff and spend the night here?" he asked. "Do you mind?"

Hell no. "I'd like that."

"Good. Now get off my ass or we'll never get out of here."

Bree pulled her hands away with a grin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." Ian turned and reached for his boxer shorts. He was holding them in his hand when he glanced back at her. "Hey, Bree?"

"Yeah?" She had no idea what he was going to say, but she wasn't worried. She trusted Ian, for whatever reason. "How do your dreams end?"

"They always end right before, well, right before I have an or­gasm." She refused to blush.

He studied her for a second, then nodded. "Mine too. So I guess we're on our own from here on out."

"Guess so." The reality of being with him felt too satisfying to worry about it though, and it was so much better than dreaming.

"Reality is definitely more satisfying than dreaming."

Bree felt that shiver run up her spine again as his words echoed her thoughts. She didn't understand what had happened, was hap­pening, but she was too much a believer in signs to deny it or back down.

This, whatever this was, was meant to happen. "Yes, it is. Infinitely more satisfying."

Ian pulled the condom off of himself with a wince. "Though messier."

Bree laughed. "True. But I'm willing to get a little messy if you are."

"I am. I absolutely am."

The look in his eyes was so fierce and sensual that Bree stepped back before they got messy all over again. She would spontaneously combust if he touched her again without a recovery period.

"Good."

And hopefully that one word would convey everything she was feeling, confused and mysterious and overwhelming as it was.

Chapter 5

Ian wasn't sure why he had ordered eggs and hash browns at four o'clock, but it just seemed like the appropriate thing to eat at a place called the Busy Bee Diner. The booth was sticky, the portions huge, and the waitresses sassy and efficient. He drank his coffee black and smiled across the table at Bree.

She still had a tousled look to her, her cheeks flushed and her hair erratic. He liked to see her this way, liked knowing he had satisfied her.

"This isn't exactly the fine dining you get in Chicago," she said, glancing around the restaurant.

"No. But I grew up in a town like Cuttersville, so I'm comfort­able here."

Bree looked at him in amazement. "You did? I have a hard time picturing that."

That's because he had tried so damn hard to shed the dust of Prairie, Illinois, from his feet. Too hard. "Yep. I was the town poor kid who never fit in because we didn't live by the rules of a small farming community. We had a farmhouse but had no acreage. My mother had two kids by two different men without ever being mar­ried. She was an eighties hippie, growing our own food and living off welfare. None of those things were particularly acceptable to the locals."

"I can see that." Bree gripped her coffee cup. "I'm sorry, Ian. It doesn't sound like an easy way to grow up."

He shrugged. "It was fine. My mother loved us, and she taught us how to survive on our own. I owe a lot of my success to her lessons in tenacity." He really didn't look back on his childhood negatively, despite the poverty and the disapproval from adults to­ward his mother. If anything, he had been a cosseted town favorite because people had felt sorry for his lack of a normal life, as they deemed it. Ironically, though, his mother had been a better mother than any of them could have ever grasped. "In fact, in some ways I think I'm still a small-town boy at heart. I've tried to convince my­self I love the city, but I get claustro-phobic. I was actually thinking about buying a house in the suburbs and commuting downtown just to have some space to myself."

"I can't imagine not having my own yard or porch. Whenever you want to be outside you have to share it with other people."

Her grimace gave her opinion on that. Ian smiled. "You don't like to share, do you?"

"Not particularly. I like people, I want them around me, but I like the peace and quiet of being outside by myself. I like my big old house and my space. I like this town, in all its quirkiness. And I like that no one thinks anything of a Murphy girl being a witch. It's sort of expected."

Ian wasn't sure he wanted the answer, but he was too curious not to ask. "So what does being a witch mean exactly?"

Bree laughed. "I can hear the skepticism just dripping from your voice. It's kind of funny actually. But the thing is, I'm not profes­sing to be capable of what characters in Harry Potter can do. Witch­craft is just harnessing the magick within all of us via spells . . . it's a nature-based religion that practices goddess worship. I was born with a sixth sense though. I can sense people's feelings and see their auras."

Yeah. He really hadn't wanted this answer. Auras weren't logi­cal. "I'm trying to understand this, Bree, I really am, but I'm strug­gling. What the hell is an aura exactly, and how can you possibly see it?"

He didn't mean it as a slur, and she didn't take it that way. She just smiled. "I bet your mother knows."

"Probably. But unfortunately, she died two years ago. Cancer." And now there was a lump in his throat, damn it. His mother would have liked Bree, no doubt about that.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Bree reached across the table and put her hand over his. "That must be really difficult for you."

"It was. Is." Ian laced his fingers through hers and squeezed. "But I'm serious . . . what does an aura look like?"

"It's the energy that surrounds everyone. They're in colors, which indicates mood to me. Together with the emotion I can sense from their feelings, I can usually tell what mood someone is in and what they're generally feeling."

"What color is my aura?" Ian resisted the urge to pat the air around him.

"Right now it's white. You're content."

Now that was kind of cool. He was content. Relaxed. Enjoying the moment. "Very true. What was it when you met me?"

"The first time? In the coffee shop? You were radiating disap­proval. You didn't like my nail polish."

Ian couldn't believe she even remembered meeting him, it had been so brief. But so very significant for him, setting off his year of erotic dreams. "That's not exactly accurate. It wasn't disapproval toward you, it was toward me. I was instantly attracted to you, and that didn't fit into my plan, so I was annoyed with myself."

"What was your plan?"

"To focus on my career and date corporate women who know their way around a boardroom and who understand my lifestyle." Now he wasn't even sure why he had thought that was a good idea. It wasn't really even who he was, and the idea of a high-profile romance with chichi dinners and expensive vacations held zero ap­peal. "You forced me to look at my plan and realize it was never really what I wanted."

"What is it that you want now?"

He wanted to say "you," but he had already said that to her once that day. And it wasn't the true, full picture. "I want to slow down. I want to have a life outside of my career. I want to date a woman whose company I enjoy, who is a friend, who appreciates the small things, and when I'm with her, I don't have to pretend that I grew up upper middle class." He thought Bree fit the bill, and that did crazy-ass things to his insides. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Bree held.her coffee in front of her chin and sniffed it. "I want a relationship with a man who respects me as a partner. I want my part-time job at the library to be full-time, because I love working with the kids. I want just enough money to pay my bills but still have enough free time to be with my family, to take care of my house. That's not so much, is it?"

"No. It's not." And listening to her, Ian was having insane lu­natic thoughts. Like maybe they could combine their goals and be together.

"Why did you come back to Cuttersville?" she asked. "You didn't really need to give me that offer on the house in person, did you?"

Busted. "No. I wanted to see you, to convince myself that the you in reality couldn't live up to the you in my dreams." Ian stroked her fingers. "I was wrong."

Bree's eyes had darkened. "When I opened the door and you were standing there, I was just about knocked out by the sexual intent rolling off you. I knew you wanted me."

Great. "Was it the erection that gave it away?" he asked rue­fully.

She laughed. "No. I didn't look. But there was instant chemis­try between us. You can't deny that."

"No, I definitely can't deny that." Ian was about to say something about them dating long-distance, having a future, and probably scare the complete shit out of her with his overeager aggressiveness, when the waitress saved him from himself by plunking a plate of eggs and hash browns down in front of him.

Bree had a chicken salad, which she didn't look all that inter­ested in. While he shoveled eggs into his mouth to appease his completely empty stomach, she just played with her fork.

"Ian, why do you think we've been sharing the same dream?"

That was the million-dollar question to which he had no an­swer. "I don't know. I don't understand things like this, Bree. I've never been . . . spiritual." It was something he had neglected and ignored, frankly, in the need to pay the bills and achieve corporate success.

"But you're not close-minded to such things, are you?"

Ian thought about that. "No. No, not really. I have a hard time wrapping my head around it, but I do realize there are some things we can't really explain. They just are."

Like his rapidly growing feelings for her.

Bree studied Ian's face. He looked sincere, and he had been amazingly open to her discussing being a witch. He was definitely different from what she had assumed he would be like, and she was enjoying his company. It was odd how they weren't the polar op­posites she had assumed based on each of their appearances. In fact, they had a lot in common when you got down to the basics, and she liked him.

Really liked him.

And she was about to say something crazy that maybe she shouldn't say, but she figured she acted out of emotion, always had, always would, and if he was going to be with her in any way, he would have to accept that facet of her personality. So she might as well come out of the gate being true to herself, and he could take it or leave it.

So she opened her mind and told him what had been rolling around in her head. "I think that the reason we've been sharing this dream in our sleep state, is because we're sharing a dream in our daytime lives."

His forehead furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that we have the same goals, essentially. We both want to hit the pause button, enjoy family and a house and a relationship. We're both lonely and looking for something with someone. With each other."

There it was. All laid out on tire table in the Busy Bee. Ev­erything she'd been thinking. If he thought she was a flake now, well, she'd save herself some time and potential heartache. If he agreed, then maybe, just maybe, it could be the start of some­thing wonderful.

Ian did look like he'd taken a two-by-four in the face, but he wasn't running out of the restaurant screaming.

What he said was, "Maybe you're right, Bree. After today, I'm willing to believe just about anything."

"Really? You don't think I'm insane?"

He shook his head solemnly, setting his fork down. "No. I think you're amazing."

She'd take that.

Ian was holding her hand as they walked up her driveway. It was new and strange, but in a giddy, exciting sort of way. It was her house, and they were going to it, a messenger bag filled with his overnight things slung over his shoulder. It was easy and comfort­able, like they were a couple, and he did this every weekend.

Her elderly neighbor Edith waved to her, myopic eyes wide with curiosity as she checked out Ian, studying their linked hands. Won­derful. The gossip that Bree Murphy was hooking up would be all over town by morning. Not that Bree cared, exactly, but it would mean a phone call from her mother, and unlike most mothers, there would be no censure. Instead, her mother would be gleeful that Bree was finally getting some, and she would press for details. Bree loved her mother, but she did not want to discuss her sex life with her. She didn't want to discuss her sex life with anyone except the man she was having sex with.

To that end, she glanced up at Ian and said, "You're making me the subject of town gossip."

He looked amused and even had the nerve to wave to Edith. "Do you care?"

"Yes," she lied. "So you had better make it worth my character defamation."

"Sort of like if everyone thinks you're being thoroughly de­bauched, I really should thoroughly debauch you?"

"You have to admit there's a certain logic to that," she told him as she fished in her purse for her house key.

"I'm all about logic." Ian held his hand out for the keys she had retrieved. "So I'll have to debauch you."

"Damn you." Bree gave him the key chain, letting her fingers slide across his bare skin. She wanted him again, immediately if not sooner.

"I'm going to start now, right here, on your porch."

"Don't do it," she warned him, in a voice that clearly conveyed she absolutely did want him to do it.

"You." He pulled her up against him. "Can't stop me."

Bree reached inside his coat and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I can scream."

Ian laughed softly. "In pleasure, maybe."

"Puh-leeze."

His hands were somehow miraculously on her butt, and they were sliding lower and lower, sort of stroking in a way that made her suck in a breath at the kick of desire that sideswiped her.

"Is that a challenge?" he asked, his head bent close to hers, his mouth inches from hers.

Duh. "Yes. Try to make me scream." Preferably not on her front porch in thirty-degree weather, but at the moment, she was even willing to give that a go.

"You're really asking for it, you know."

"Yes, I am." Bree was enjoying that Ian looked more than will­ing to give it to her. He had an erection pressing firmly into her thigh, and he looked like he could literally eat her from the bottom up right there with no encouragement. Perfect.

"Here it is then," he said, as he closed the distance between them and took her lips in a searing kiss.

Bree barely had time to open her mouth before Ian was slam­ming her back into her front door and burying his hands in her hair as he kissed her senseless. Whoa. Hello. Bree gripped the front of his jacket for support and gave as good as she got. There was defi­nitely amazing chemistry between them, and he could make her hot in less time than it took to sneeze. Her mind went blank, and she forgot the cold, forgot the gawking neighbor, and only regis­tered the heat, the pleasure, the intense desire to touch all of this man everywhere, to know him, to have him inside her.

The front door popped open suddenly from his hand turning the knob, hurtling her backwards. She would have fallen, but Ian held her steady before easing her carefully down onto the floor. He kicked the front door shut with his foot and Bree blinked up at him as he hovered over her, unzipping his pants.

"Are we having sex on the floor again?" she asked, spreading her legs slightly in invitation.

"I think so," he said, his fingers already shoving her skirt up. "I'm sorry, but there are just too many stairs in this house. It will take at least three minutes to get upstairs and I can't wait that long."

Bree gave a soft moan when he slid her panties down more quickly than carefully. "That is a long time to wait."

"And I am supposed to be debauching you."

"You're doing a good job of it." Bree would have added a comment about the view they were probably giving anyone who happened to wander up onto her porch and glance in her giant windows—like say Edith from next door—when her breath was literally taken away from his pushing inside her with an aggressive thrust.

Bree's eyes rolled back in her head and her entire body stood up and did the happy dance. "Oh, Ian."

She couldn't imagine why she had ever thought it was a good idea to go twenty months without sex. Sex rocked, and she loved it, especially with Ian. He knew every way to touch, every way to take, and she liked that he never hesitated, that he just knew his intentions would be well received.

He stroked in and out of her faster, then slower, harder, softer, teasing her until she was squirming beneath him and rocking her hips up to meet him, begging for more, for release, for him to never stop. The way she had in her dream. "Ian . . . please. God." Bree had no clue what she was even asking for, she just wanted every­thing, all of him, wanted him inside her indefinitely, and the bliss­ful feeling of an empty mind to go on and on.

She was sliding backwards on the floor, her fingers jerking across his firm chest with each of his thrusts, and she couldn't react, could only feel, appreciate, breathe.

"What, Bree? What do you want?"

He had to ask that, when she was too steeped in pleasure, too insensate to articulate what she was feeling, so she just pried her eyes open and met his steady gaze. "You. I want you."

Ian groaned. "Bree."

She felt his orgasm, felt his muscles clench, his shoulders tense, felt the pulsing of him deep inside her, and she let go herself, came together with him, so that they were wrapped in pleasure together.

Ian dropped kisses on her forehead, her temples, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "You are beautiful."

Bree smiled, her body and her soul incredibly satisfied. He had said she was beautiful at least four times that day. Not that she'd been keeping count, but it was nice to hear. "And you're hot."

"I'm going to carry you upstairs now," he said. "I need a twenty-minute nap, then the debauching will continue."

"You can't carry me all the way upstairs. There's like seventeen steps."

"Are you insulting my masculinity?" Ian pulled away from her and readjusted her skirt so it fell to her ankles again.

Rolling her eyes, but with no real irritation, she said, "I'm just being practical. We're going to fall if you try to carry me. And those steps are hard. Trust me, I've had the bruised knees to prove that running up them talking on your cell phone is not a good idea."

"I'm doing it."

"If you drop me, I'll curse you." Bree stood up and debated whether she cared if her panties were still lying on the floor. It seemed like a hell of a lot of effort to bend back over and pick them up when she was feeling so satisfied, sleepy, and tranquil.

Ian solved her dilemma by scooping her up into his arms, bounc­ing her a little to get a better grip.

"Ah!" She clung to his shoulders, off-balance. "Ian. I'm serious."

"And I'm tenacious. Get used to it." He started toward the stairs.

Bree was tempted to close her eyes so if she fell, she wouldn't see the floor rising up to break her nose and knock her teeth out, but she was too enamored by his cuteness to not take advantage of the closeness the position gave her to his face. She rubbed her lips over his jaw and the corners of his mouth.

"You think I'm going to drop you, so you go and distract me?" he asked. "Not a good idea."

"Sorry." Bree just watched him the rest of the way up the steps, studying the fine lines flaring out from under his eyes. Enjoying the length of his thick eyelashes and the strength of his jaw. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two. In the best shape I've ever been."

His breath was a little ragged, and he had a death grip on her.

Bree laughed. "I can see that." At the risk of distracting him yet again, she brushed her finger over his lip. "But remember that you never have to prove anything to me. I know."

She wasn't entirely sure what she meant by that, but she could sense his feelings, could sense the contentment and happiness he felt with her, the wonder he had at his attraction, attachment to her. She sensed he was falling in love with her, and she was doing the same.

It was insane, but it was real.

"Thank you." Ian hit the landing, and said, "Which way?" "First door on the right."

He finished the odyssey by ungracefully dropping her down onto her bed and collapsing beside her. "Now leave me alone, Bree, I need some sleep."

"I haven't done anything! This is all you, every time." She loved their banter, that he could tease and take it back in return.

"Witches shouldn't lie." Ian stripped off his T-shirt.

Bree laughed, and shed her own skirt and sweater before pull­ing back her comforter. "Why not? Not that I'm lying, but if I was, why can't a witch lie?"

"I don't know. It seems deceptive." He punched the pillow to fluff it up and smiled at her.

"Such is the nature of a lie."

"Very true."

They both laughed. When Ian reached for her, she gladly went into his arms and fell asleep.

Chapter 6

Ian woke up, the dream still fresh in his mind, so real that he glanced around the room to figure out where he was. Still in Bree's room, the light from the bay window was gone. It was night already. He reached for her, needing and wanting to feel her warmth. He didn't understand the dream he'd had, didn't know where they had been in it.

"Bree?" he whispered, aware that she was probably still asleep, but not caring. He wanted to hear her voice in the dark.

"Yes?" she said immediately.

"Did you dream?" he asked cautiously. When he had planned this trip to Cuttersville, it had been his intent to end his dreams of Bree. Get over them, move on. Now that he'd had her, now that he was getting to know her and he saw how truly fabulous she was, he didn't want the dreams to end. In his sleep or awake. Bree had come into his life for a reason, and he wanted to explore the full length and breadth of that meaning.

That was why the dream he'd had bothered him.

It hadn't been sexual. Nor had it been in her house.

"Yeah, I had a dream. Not the same one as before though, so it must have just been some jumbled thoughts cramming together." She rolled over and snuggled closer to him. "We were in some house I didn't recognize. It was kind of dirty in the living room, and there was no furniture, just a card table and a bare artificial Christmas tree. Who knows where my mind pulled that all from, but it's probably pure exhaustion." She kissed him, her tongue slid­ing along his bottom lip. "You wear me out."

Ian would have liked to give that kiss and her innuendo the re­sponse she was clearly asking for, but he was too unnerved. "Bree, I had the same dream. It was the same house you're describing. There was some woman there I've never seen in my life, and I could swear you and I were actually upset with each other. What the hell could we have been doing?"

It had been as vivid and real as his more pleasant sexual dreams, only in this one, instead of the scent of Bree's perfume, he had smelled the mustiness of a house that had been empty. He'd seen the dust on the floor, felt the cold of a room that was only being minimally heated. He'd known the sharp agony of Bree's disap­proval. Toward him.

He didn't like it, any of it. He wanted to stay together, warm, in her bed all winter, content with exploring each other's bodies and minds and hearts.

"What? You saw the same house? Are you sure?" She went up on her elbow and looked at him in the darkened room. "That's weird. It was like it was abandoned or for sale or something."

Ian was about to say he'd thought the same thing when his cell phone rang on Bree's bedside table. He reluctantly pulled himself away from Bree and grappled for the phone to check caller ID.

Damn. It was Darius Damiano, his eccentric millionaire client who wanted to buy Bree's house for indecipherable reasons. "I really should answer this, babe. It's a client. Do you mind?"

"No, go ahead. I have to go to the bathroom anyway."

Ian said, "Ian Carrington," into the phone, distracted as he watched Bree walk across the room naked before pulling on panties and a T-shirt retrieved from her dresser. It was dark, but not pitch-black, and he could see the outline of every one of her delicious curves as she moved.

"Carrington, it's Darius Damiano. I figured out how to get that house I want."

"What?" That snapped Ian back to reality. "What do you mean?"

"The Victorian monstrosity in Ohio's Most Haunted Town. I know you said the owner isn't going to sell, but I did a little dig­ging, and she's going to want to unload it after she hears what I found."

Ian gripped his phone tighter, glancing toward the doorway through which Bree had disappeared. This didn't sound good. "What did you find?"

"She owes eighty grand in back property taxes. Turns out her granny had a little arrangement with the appraiser and her house value was frozen at 1989 prices. I suggested this was illegal and might land him in some trouble if he didn't reevaluate the property and go after back taxes, and he agreed with me."

"Holy shit." It was all Ian could think to say. He was sitting in Bree's bed in the very house Damiano was talking about. Bree was going to be furious, and somehow Ian doubted she had a spare eighty grand lying around. He felt a measure of responsibility in that he should have known Darius was a wealthy businessman—he went after what he wanted, and usually got it. Ian should have seen some kind of maneuver coming, but he had been too busy undress­ing Bree to pay attention to the signs.

"And I'm reasonable, you know that. I don't want to screw her. I'm perfectly willing to still give her my last offer. It's significantly higher than market value, and she'll be able to pay the tax bill and still have the same cash that she would have if she sold the house in an open market."

It was reasonable, and wouldn't leave Bree out any actual money. But Ian couldn't support the way Darius had gone about securing himself a purchase, nor could he ever put a price on Bree's attach­ment to her grandmother's house. It wasn't about money, it was about emotion. And Bree's ran high. God, she was going to be devastated, and that devastated him.

"I'll inform the owner of her options," Ian said carefully. He heard the toilet flush down the hall, and he wanted off the phone when Bree returned to the bedroom. "And I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"Thanks. I think we can have this locked up by Christmas. I'd like closing on January 1, and have her out of the house by Febru­ary 1."

"Okay, I'll present that request to her." Ian really wanted to ask Darius why the hell he was so determined to have a house in the middle of nowhere four hundred miles from his penthouse in Chi­cago, but Bree had walked back in and was settling down onto the bed beside him. There was no way he wanted to ask that question in front of her. It was going to be hard enough to tell her what was going on. "I'll call you as soon as I have an answer, Darius."

"Great. Thanks, Ian."

Ian turned off his phone and set it back on the nightstand. He stared at the table and tried to formulate words for what he had to tell Bree. He had none. The situation sucked, plain and simple.

Bree touched his back. "What's the matter? Who was that?"

"That was Darius, the client who wants to buy your house."

Bree felt a tremor of alarm disrupt the calm contentment she had been feeling. Ian was acting strange. He wasn't looking at her, but was staring intently at her nightstand, his back arched. "What is this Darius like? And what did he want now?"

Ian finally glanced at her over his shoulder. He was biting his fingernail. "What's he like? Well, he's . . . brisk. Efficient. He's twenty-eight and worth close to $50 million, so he has a certain confidence."

Bree still wasn't sure why Ian looked and sounded so stiff, so she leaned against his bare back and kissed his shoulder blade. "How does someone get fifty million dollars by the age of twenty-eight? That's unreal. Did he inherit it?"

"No. He investigates hauntings for a television show, and he's made some wise investments."

She forgot all about her desire to squeeze the warmth of Ian's rock-solid biceps and sat straight up. "Wait a minute. Do you mean Darius Damiano? The guy who stays overnight in haunted houses on camera?"

"Yes."

Sure she'd seen Ian wince, Bree crawled around until she was off the bed and standing in front of him. "What is going on here?"

"Well. He still wants to buy your house."

"No!" Bree put her hands on her hips. "I wasn't going to say yes before but now that I know who it is, it will never happen. He's a total freak." Just the thought of his walking into her house and putting in some weird modern furniture gave her hives. She had no idea why she thought he would go for contemporary decorating, but he seemed cold, like gray and black and steel would appeal to him.

"How can you say he's a freak because he investigates haunt­ings? You're a witch."

Bree frowned, offended. "Totally different, Ian. I am not sensa­tionalizing my beliefs, nor am I making money off them."

"Reading tarot isn't putting cash in your pocket?"

Damn it, he had her there. "Okay, that's true, but I don't do it on camera. His show is like a circus act, an illusion. And you have to admit, he goes for drama. I mean, he sleeps in freshly dug graves! Who does that?" She wasn't sure why his show bothered her so much, she just knew that it did, ten times more now that she knew he wanted her house.

Ian put his forearms on his thighs and shrugged. "Twenty-eight-year-olds worth fifty million."

"So why did he call?" Bree was getting cold from standing in her underwear, but she knew there was bad news coming. She could feel it from Ian, There was guilt leaking off him.

"Well, the thing is, he really wants your house. So he did a little poking around and he found out that you owe $80,000 in back property taxes. I'll have to contact the county, but I suspect they're due by the next tax quarter deadline, which is January 15."

Bree stared at Ian. She could have sworn he had just said some­thing as insane as that she owed eighty frickin' thousand dollars in taxes. That had to be wrong. Had to be. She wouldn't see eighty grand just lolling around in her bank account anytime in her life. "Excuse me?"

Ian launched into an explanation about her grandmother and something about property values being frozen and some other stuff that didn't register at all because her ears were ringing and her heart was racing and she was pretty damn sure she was going to faint. "Are you actually saying that I have to come up with eighty grand m the next three weeks?"

"Yes. You can take a home equity loan against the house to pay for it, Bree. Since you own the house, it won't be a problem secur­ing the loan, and your payments would only be about six hundred a month, I'd think."

"Only? Only six hundred a month. I can't afford that, Ian! I can't afford half that. I work part-time in a small-town library and read tarot cards for tourists. I'm not exactly rolling in it here." Bree clutched her throat, wondering why it felt like she could no longer swallow. "Crap, crap, crap. What am I going to do?" She couldn't even think.

"Is there someone you can borrow the money from?"

Was he smoking crack? Bree looked at him in disbelief. "Not $80,000! I don't know anyone who has that kind of money, except for my little sister Abby. She inherited over $200,000 from my grandmother, but she can't touch it until she turns twenty-one, which is in two and a half years."

"Maybe you can take the home equity loan and take in renters to pay the loan."

Oh, that sounded like fun. Sharing her house for the next fifteen years with a revolving door of strangers. "Eew," she said. "That sounds horrible."

"Well, you can always sell the house to Darius. He is willing to give you the last offer he made, which is way above market value. You'd have enough to pay the taxes and pocket a substantial amount of cash. You'd actually end up better off than if you tried to sell the house yourself."

Bree felt slapped as she listened to his words. So there it was. The source of his guilt. He knew that was the most viable option for her, and he was trying to list the benefits of it because if she sold the house, it made his client happy and him money. "Oh my God," she said. "You knew this all along, didn't you?"

To his credit, he looked shocked. "No! Of course not. He just told me on the phone."

"But you think it's a good idea?"

"I think it's a logical one, but I know how much this house means to you."

"You have no idea." Bree felt tears pricking her eyes. She felt panicked and, frankly, betrayed. Ian could talk his client out of wanting her house. He could find another one for him, even right there in Cuttersville. There were alleged haunted houses all over town, and hers wasn't even one of them. But Ian clearly had no in­terest in talking Darius out of his underhanded offer. And how did she even know that it wasn't Ian who had dug up the knowledge about the taxes at Darius's request?

All while sleeping with her.

Ugh.

She just wanted to be alone. "Okay, you need to leave. I'm going to get dressed and go talk to Charlotte." Bree glanced around for her skirt. She needed a shoulder to cry on and some advice, and she didn't think it would be wise to do that in her panties, though she just might if she didn't find clothes in the next two seconds.

"I'll go with you." Ian stood up.

"No. No, you won't." Bree grabbed her skirt off the floor and stepped into it.

"Why not?" He gave her a wounded look.

"Because I just want to talk to my sister alone." She yanked off her T-shirt and pulled a turtleneck on. "Is there anything else about this Darius and his crappy offer that you need to tell me?"

"Just that he wants to close on January 1 and he wants you out by February 1."

Fresh tears filled her eyes, and these actually spilled up and over and slid down her cheeks. "Are you kidding me? What a total bastard."

"He's just a businessman, Bree. It's nothing personal."

She could not believe he was coldhearted enough to say some­thing so callous. "Not personal? Not personal! This is my family home, Ian. I've been manipulated into a corner and I'm going to lose everything and you're acting like it's not a big deal. Oh my God. Just get out of my house. Now. Or I will scream, and I am seriously not playing this time." In fact, she felt like she might just start spontaneously screaming regardless of whether he left or not.

"Bree . . . calm down. We'll figure this out. I'll loan you the money."

He reached for her, but Bree dodged him. She couldn't stand the thought of him touching her, and she really, really wanted to be alone so she could break down in private. She hated feeling vulner­able, hated feeling like she was being patronized, hated worrying and wondering if he had manipulated her all along.

"I don't want your damn money. I want you out of my house." She was crying for real now, and it pissed her off.

Ian tried again to touch her, but she just threw his pants at him, hitting him in the face. "Get. Out."

Maybe she was being totally irrational, but she was over­whelmed and hurt and panicked. She wanted to be alone to think, and he was not listening to her or respecting that, which said volumes about him.

"You don't mean that," he said, pulling his pants off his head.

Hello. "Yes, I do. Leave."

He stood there for a minute, and Bree stared him down, her heart pounding and her palms sweaty. His jaw was locked, his shoulders tense.

Finally, he said, "Okay. If that's what you want." He tried to step into his jeans and tripped over Akasha. "Damn it, this fucking cat is always under my feet."

Bree gasped and bent over to grab her cat. "Do not swear at my cat."

Ian rolled his eyes. "I wasn't swearing at the cat. I was swearing about the cat."

She bit her tongue before she said something utterly childish. Instead, she just turned and walked out the door.

"Bree!" Ian called after her. "Please, don't do this. We need to talk. We can figure this out."

Except that at the moment she just didn't want to.

Chapter 7

Bree sat in her living room in front of the fireplace the next day, her Yule log resting on the grate, red candles all around it. She felt much calmer than she had the day before. Discussing the bleak situation with Charlotte and Will had helped. The tax bill was a huge problem, there was no doubt about it. Her sister and her brother-in-law had echoed Ian's suggestions for how to handle paying the tax bill, but somehow coming from them the logic was way less irritating.

She felt bad about the way she had handled the situation with him. She was fairly certain she had overreacted, but she had just been so blindsided by the horror of potentially losing her house that she had lashed out at Ian. He had been an easy target, and she wasn't necessarily proud of that. But she didn't really know him well at all, and she had been falling for him. Hard. And that had scared her. So maybe she had found a reason to pull the plug. Which made her seriously annoyed with herself.

She was the one who always professed to believe in signs, to be­lieve in destiny, to believe in her own empathetic ability.

Yet she had ignored all of those and reacted with fear and mis­trust.

There was, or had been, something special growing between her and Ian, regardless of how short a time they'd known each other. She had been dreaming of him for a year, and she truly, genuinely enjoyed his company. When she was with him, she felt an ease and a comfort that she had never had with any other man.

Yet she'd thrown his jeans at him and tossed him out. Granted, he still had a little explaining to do as to why he hadn't tried to talk his client out of stealing her house from under her, but Bree understood that to a certain extent, Ian's hands were tied. She had reacted with pure emotion and now Ian was probably back in Chi­cago and she would never know the fulfillment of what they might have been together.

It sucked, basically. So Bree wanted to burn her log in solitude and ask her grandmother for guidance. She wanted to bring peace and more logic to her life in the new year. She wanted to stop acting first and thinking only later, and she needed to accept whatever was going to happen with the house. She needed to make a decision and be comfortable with it.

Closing her eyes, she visualized her desires, saw them as words and pictures in her mind. Peace. Answers. Ian.

Then she opened her eyes, lit her candles, and spoke softly, "As you burn, this spell's set free; As I will so mote it be."

An hour later, Bree stood up from her fireplace and blew out the half-burned candles. She knew what she had to do. She didn't like it, but it was the option that made the most sense, and she was at peace with it.

She was going to have to sell her house to Darius Damiano. She couldn't ask anyone to lend her that kind of money, even if they'd had it, and she couldn't afford a loan. She had to let the house go, and somehow in her meditations, she'd felt in her heart that her grandmother was telling her it was okay to do the reasonable thing. That she understood.

So Bree went to her computer, found a phone number for the heiress turned real-estate agent, Amanda Delmar Tucker, and gave her a call on her cell phone. Amanda answered right away, and Bree explained to her the situation.

"So, I need to find a place to live, Amanda. Either a rental house or if there's something decent available to buy, I'd be interested."

"No problem, Bree. We'll fix this for you. I do actually know of one property for sale that you might be interested in. It's over on Evergreen Drive, and it's a little 1920s Victorian. Sort of like a mini version of your house, and it's been empty for a while since the owner died and the kids have taken a year to decide what to do with it."

Evergreen Drive. That struck Bree as fortuitous. Evergreens symbolized eternal life since they never went completely dormant during the winter. Bree could use any sign she could get because she was still feeling a little shell-shocked from the whole situation. "So when can we see it? I don't have a lot of time. The buyer wants me out by February 1."

"We should be able to see it tomorrow since it's empty, as long as you don't mind that I'll have my monkeys, aka children, with me. Today was Piper's last day of school before Christmas break, and Logan lives on my hip since he's only six months old. I don't think Danny will be able to stay home with them on such short notice."

"I don't mind. You know I've always thought Piper was a great kid. I'll bring a book for her from the library to compensate her for having to go house hunting on her first day of break."

"She'd love that. And I have to say that I'm damn curious why Darius Damiano wants your house so badly that he was willing to dig through tax records. I know Darius from my clubbing days in Chicago, and he never struck me as mercenary. I'm really sorry he's doing this to you, Bree. I know what that house means to you, and your sisters, too."

Bree swore she wouldn't cry, but her eyes did tear up. "Thanks, Amanda. I'm trying to tell myself that there is a positive reason for all of this, I just can't see what it is yet."

"Sometimes things just suck, you know."

That made Bree give a watery laugh. "That's true."

"And not to change the subject—okay, I am totally changing the subject—but there is a rumor running around town that you're shagging my lawyer. Please tell me that it's true."

She should have known that the Cuttersville rumor mill would be grinding out the news about her and Ian in no time. "It's sort of true. Ian and I spent the day together yesterday, but then he told me about Damiano's 'offer,' which basically forced me to have to sell my house, and I thought he bore some culpability, so I sort of lost it on him."

"Oh, I doubt Ian had anything to do with it at all. He was just acting under the direction of his client. Ian is a really good guy under all the button-up shirts."

Somehow Bree suspected that was the truth.

"So did you sleep with him before you kicked him to the curb?"

Leave it to Amanda to just ask straight out what she was think­ing. And leave it to Bree to tell the truth. "Yes. Twice."

"Ooohh, ma cherie, that is tres magnifique." Amanda sounded downright gleeful.

Bree felt the same when she thought back to the feel of Ian in­side her. "But then I freaked out on him and threw his jeans in his face and kicked him out."

Amanda gave a short laugh. "Well, that's easy enough to fix, if you want to."

Bree knew she wanted to fix it. Or at least hear Ian's side of the story. "It's too late, Amanda. He went back to Chicago." She was sure of it.

Ian pulled into the driveway of the house that was for sale and parked his car to wait for the real-estate agent. He considered it a good sign that the listing agent was willing to show him the house on such short notice, and the price was unbelievably low. Ian could afford it easily and still maintain his condo in Chicago. He was very attracted to the idea of having a house in the country, one so close to Bree. Maybe if he was around town, they could fix the rift between them, and God knew, he wanted that more than he wanted any piece of property.

It had been an accident that had led him to the house. After leaving Bree's house two nights earlier, he had taken a wrong turn in the dark and wound up in a part of town he had never seen. He'd turned around in the driveway of this house and seen the for sale sign. Then he'd returned in the light the next day and had felt an immediate kinship to the shabby Victorian. It was calling for an owner, and he was looking to put down roots.

Maybe it was a way to ease the wound of losing Bree so quickly after finding her. He didn't know. But he had looked at that house and felt like Charlie Brown with his spindly Christmas tree. They needed each other.

The agent, Marcy Hancock, had pulled in behind him. "This house needs work," she said as a way of greeting when they both stood in the driveway. "It's been empty for a year, and the mice have made it home."

Ian stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'm aware of that. But it sounds like the price reflects that, and if it's structurally sound, I don't have a problem with a little grime."

"Okay, let's take a look then. Oh, and another agent is bringing a client by to look at it. We might bump into them."

They went in through the back, into the kitchen. It needed seri­ous updating but it had a good layout, and Ian could see it would be an easy job to replace the existing cabinets and do a remodel. Not cheap, but no walls needed to be moved either. He liked the light and the woodwork and the hardwood floors. He was feeling cautiously optimistic when they headed into the living room.

There he just stopped and stared. Holy shit. It was the room, the house, from his dream. It had the same musty smell, the same dusty floor.

The same bare and lonely Christmas tree standing in a corner.

The agent was running on and on about the previous owner and how the house had such potential, but Ian barely heard a word.

It was the house.

And the front door was opening.

He turned and there was Bree, walking into the house.

She saw him, and he felt it, just like in his dream. Her disap­pointment in him, her longing. The mutual ache from both their hearts.

God, he was in love with her. It was crazy, impossible, but he was.

Just looking at her standing there, snow on her boots, coat bun­dled up to her throat, gloves on, nose red from the cold, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.

"Ian?" she said. "What are you doing here?" She stepped into the entry hall.

He cleared his throat, which was suddenly tight. "I was thinking I might like a place in the country. I found this one by accident."

"Really?" Bree moved into the doorway of the living room, paus­ing between the open pocket doors. She looked around the room and gasped. "Oh, Ian." There were instant tears in her eyes. "This is the house in our dream."

"Bree," he said, moving toward her, unable to stop himself from taking her hands in his. "I'm so sorry about Darius and the house . . . I swear I had no idea what he was doing. I'll give you the money, I'll do whatever you want me to do to prove that I would never intentionally hurt you. Please understand that. I really, re­ally . . . love you." He couldn't believe he'd said that out loud, but it was true, and he wanted her to know. Ian cupped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her forehead. "You can think I'm insane, but it's true. I know you. Does that make sense?"

"Yes." Her hands wrapped around his wrists, and she kissed the inside of his palm. "I know you had no part in Damiano's offer. I'm sorry I overreacted. I was hurt and overwhelmed, and I always react with emotion."

"I understand."

Bree looked up at him, saw the love he had for her shining in his dark eyes and she felt the peace, the happiness she had asked for. This was the man she wanted, whether it made sense or not, whether it was too soon or not. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and she knew that Ian was, quite literally, the man of her dreams. "I love you," she said. "And this is our house, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Ian smiled down at her. "Let's take the rest of the tour together."

"Yeesh, it takes forever to wrestle this car seat out of the car."

Bree turned to see Amanda Delmar Tucker stumbling in the front door in her jeans, a trench coat, and boots with two-inch heels, mas­sive handbag over one arm and a baby carrier over the other. Amanda's son was nothing but a round bald head surrounded by fleece in his car seat. Her daughter, Piper, was standing behind Amanda, holding a diaper bag and peering curiously into the house.

Amanda stuck her sunglasses on her head and took a deep breath. "I feel like a pack mule." Then she seemed to finally realize what she was looking at. "Ian. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm buying this house, Amanda."

Amanda set the carrier down and slammed the front door shut. She came toward them, hand out. "No, you're not. Bree is. You've already let your client screw her out of one house, you're not screw­ing her personally out of another."

Bree thought it was awesome that Amanda was willing to go to the mat for her. But in this case, she didn't actually need to. Bree snuggled closer to Ian. "Actually, it's okay for Ian to screw me per­sonally in this case."

Ian laughed. It took Amanda a second, but then she just said, "Hello. Not in front of my kids, okay? But what do you mean? What's really going on here?"

Ian said, "I think that Bree and I have decided to buy this house together, fifty-fifty. Am I right?" He looked to her for confirmation.

She had never been more sure of anything. "Absolutely."

"I'm confused," the real-estate agent who had been with Ian said.

"Hey, look," Piper said. The little girl had dumped the diaper bag on the floor and was wandering around the room. "There's still an ornament on this tree. It's a cat."

Of course it was.

Chapter 8

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Charlotte asked Bree for about the nineteenth time in the last two days. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm absolutely one hundred percent sure." Bree held a potted plant in her hand in the hallway of Granny's house. She was almost done moving all of her stuff to the house on Ever­green.

Abby pushed her hair out of her eyes and sat on the chair she had been carrying. "Not everyone needs to know someone for eight hundred years like you and Will did. Most people figure it out a little sooner."

Charlotte stuck her tongue out at Abby. "It was more like eight years, not eight hundred."

"Bad enough. Bree can't wait eight years. She'll be old by then."

Bree smacked Abby's arm. "Thanks. But no, I'm not waiting. Ian and I are starting our life together now."

"I just want you to be happy."

Bree smiled. "I am."

"I can't believe someone else owns this house now," Abby said, her expression sad as she glanced around the empty front rooms.

Bree reached out and squeezed Abby's shoulder. "I know. Me either." It was the only sad spot in a bright future. She was going to miss the house, miss the memories that could be found around every corner. But somehow she knew this was her grandmother's way of telling her that it was time for a new phase in her life.

"Hey, look, Akasha left that mistletoe bunch on the floor." Char­lotte pointed to the corner of the living room, by the fireplace. "We should probably grab that."

Bree stared at the mistletoe and smiled. "Nah. I think we should leave that for Darius Damiano. It sounds like he could use a little love in his life."

Abby scoffed. "Or someone smacking him upside the head."

"You're not talking about me, are you?" Ian appeared in the doorway, Will behind him.

Bree smiled. "No, we're just insulting Darius Damiano."

"Fair enough," Ian said.

"What else needs to go out?" Will asked, ever the efficient and brawny cop.

"This chair," Abby said, still sitting on it.

"Well, I guess you need to get out of it then, Squirt."

Bree would have expected Abby to make a smart-ass remark back to Will, but instead she just stared into the parlor. Then she said, "I'm going to live in this house, Bree. I just saw it. I'm older, and I live here. With a dude."

Bree wanted to dismiss it as Abby's melancholy over losing the house, but she remembered Abby's prediction about Ian, and she had to trust it. Or at least that it was a possibility. "I can see that, Abby."

Ian came over and whispered in her ear, "I love you. And I can't wait to debauch you in our new, freshly painted, remodeled house."

Bree turned slightly and kissed his cheek. "I love you, too. And I love the debauching in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, I've noticed."

Bree was wondering if they could get rid of everyone else for one last romp in the house, when her brother-in-law called over to them.

"Hey, Ian, give me a hand. Let's get the show on the road." Will was bent over, hands under the seat of the chair Abby was sitting in.

Ian went over and together they lifted the chair and carried a squealing Abby toward the front door. Charlotte hooked her arm through Bree's. "You okay?"

"I'm great." She had her sisters, her brother-in-law, a man she loved, a new house.

It was wonderful. It was magick.