The dining room should have felt formal, intimidating with its huge mahogany table, the wide sideboards and high-backed chairs. But it was as welcoming as her parlor. The colors were warm here, too, deep burgundy shades mixed with dark golds.

Flowers in the same hues scented this air as well and speared out of cut crystal. A fire crackled, like an accompaniment to the quiet music of harps and pipes.

The trio of windows along the wall was left uncovered to bring the contrast of black night and white snow into the room. Perfect as a photograph.

There was a succulent rack of lamb and the light of a dozen candles. If she’d been intending to dress a stage for romance, she had succeeded, expertly. As they ate she steered the conversation into literature, art, theater, all the while watching him with flattering attention.

It was almost, he thought, hypnotic. The way she looked at a man, fully, directly, deeply. Candlelight played over her skin like gold on alabaster, in her eyes like gilt over smoke. He wished he could do better than rough pencil sketches. Hers was a face that demanded oil and canvas. It surprised him that they had so much common ground. Books enjoyed, music appreciated. Then again, each of them had spent considerable time learning of the other’s background. He knew she’d grown up here, in this house, an only child. And that her parents had given most of her day-to-day care into Lulu’s hands. She’d gone to college at Radcliffe and had earned degrees in literature and business.

Her parents had left the island before she’d graduated, and rarely returned. She came from money, as did he.

She belonged to no coven, no group, no organization, and lived quietly and alone in the place of her birth. She had never married, nor had she ever lived with a man.

He wondered that a woman so obviously, so elegantly sexual, had not done so.

“You enjoy traveling,” she said.

“There’s a lot out there to see. I guess I enjoyed it more in my twenties. The kick of packing up, taking off, whenever I wanted, or needed to.”

“And living inNew York . The excitement, the stimulation.”

“It has its advantages. But my work can be done anywhere. Do you get toNew York often?”

“No. I rarely leave the island. I have all I need and want here.”

“Museums, theater, galleries?”

“I don’t have much of a thirst for them. I prefer my cliffs, my forest, my work. And my garden,” she added. “It’s a pity it’s winter, or we could take a stroll through my garden. Instead we’ll have to settle for coffee and dessert in the parlor.”

She treated him to delicate profiteroles, which he enjoyed. Offered him brandy, which he declined. A clock from somewhere deep in the house bonged the hour as she once again curled herself on the sofa beside him.

“You’re a man of great personal restraint and willpower, aren’t you, Dr. Booke?”

“I’m not sure that’s ever come up. Why?”

“Because you’ve been in my home, alone with me, for more than two hours. I’ve plied you with wine, candlelight, music. And yet you haven’t brought up your professional interest in me, nor have you tried to seduce me. Is that admirable, I wonder, or should I be insulted?”

“I thought about both those things.”

“Really? And what did you think?”

“That you invited me into your home, so to bring up my professional interest was inappropriate.”

“Ah.” She tilted her head, deliberately giving him the opening to lean in, take her mouth. “And the seduction?”

“If there’s a man who’s been within a half a mile of you and hasn’t imagined seducing you, he needs therapy immediately.”

“Oh, I do like you. More than I’d counted on, actually. Now, I’ll apologize for baiting you.”

“Why? I liked it.”

“Mac.” She leaned over, touched her lips lightly to his. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?”

“I hope so.”

“I might have enjoyed being more, but it would have been brief, and it would have complicated destinies.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both, and more. We’re not meant to be lovers. I didn’t know you’d already realized that.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I regret it a little.”

“I’d be annoyed if you didn’t.” She tossed back her curling flood of dark-red hair. “Ask the professional question that’s most on your mind. I’ll answer if I can.”

“The circle in the woods by the cottage. How did you cast it?”

Surprise had her pursing her lips. She rose to give herself a moment to think. “That’s a good one,” she said, wandering to the window. “How did you find it?” Before he could answer, she waved a hand. “No, never mind. It’s your job. I can’t answer a question that involves others who may not wish it.”

“I know about Ripley, and Nell.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you?”

“From research, process of elimination, observation.” He shrugged his shoulders. “From being good at what I do. I haven’t approached Nell because both you and Ripley objected.”

“I see. Are you afraid what we’d do if you ignored our objections?”

“No.”

“No. Just that simple and quick. A courageous man.”

“Not at all. You wouldn’t use your gift to punish or harm—not without cause or provocation—and then only to protect. Ripley doesn’t have your control or dedication, but she has her own code, possibly more strict than yours.”

“You read people well. And you’ve approached Ripley? You’ve spoken to her?”

“Yes, I have.”

The corners of her mouth bowed up, but there was little humor in the smile. “And you say you’re not courageous.”

There was enough bite to the words to intrigue. “What happened between the two of you?”

“That’s a second question, and I’ve yet to decide if I’ll answer the first. Until Ripley confirms your supposition—”

“It’s not a supposition, it’s fact. And she has confirmed it.”

“Now you surprise me.” Puzzling it out, Mia paced to the fireplace, from there to the coffeepot to pour, though she had no desire for coffee.