Should’ve called it Spooky Hollow, she decided, and nearly missed the turn into the gravel lane.

Why, she wondered, would anyone choose to live here? Amid all those dense, thrusting trees where bleak pools of snow huddled to hide from the sun? Where the only sound was the warning growl of Nature. Everything was brown and gray and moody.

She bumped over a little bridge spanning a curve of a creek, followed the slight rise of the stingy lane.

There was the house, exactly as advertised.

It sat on what she would have termed a knoll rather than a hill, with the front slope tamed into step-down terraces decked with shrubs she imagined put on a hell of a show in the spring and summer.

There wasn’t a lawn, so to speak, and she thought Hawkins had been smart to go with the thick mulch and shrubs and trees skirting the front instead of the traditional grass that would probably be a pain in the ass to mow and keep clear of weeds.

She approved of the deck that wrapped around the front and sides, and she’d bet the rear as well. She liked the earthy tones of the stone and the generous windows.

It sat like it belonged there, content and well-settled in the woods.

She pulled up beside an aging Chevy pickup, got out of her car to stand and take a long view.

And understood why someone would choose this spot. There was, unquestionably, an aura of spookiness, especially for one who was inclined to see and feel such things. But there was considerable charm as well, and a sense of solitude that was far from lonely. She could imagine very well sitting on that front deck some summer evening, drinking a cold one, and wallowing in the silence.

Before she could move toward the house, the front door opened.

The sense of déjà vu was vivid, almost dizzying. He stood there at the door of the cabin, the blood like red flowers on his shirt.

We can stay no longer.

The words sounded in her head, clear, and in a voice she somehow knew.

“Miss Black?”

She snapped back. There was no cabin, and the man standing on the lovely deck of his charming house had no blood blooming on him. There was no force of great love and great grief shining in his eyes.

And still, she had to lean back against her car for a minute and catch her breath. “Yeah, hi. I was just…admiring the house. Great spot.”

“Thanks. Any trouble finding it?”

“No, no. Your directions were perfect.” And, of course, it was ridiculous to be having this conversation outside in the freezing wind. From the quizzical look on his face, he obviously felt the same.

She pushed off the car, worked up what she hoped was a sane and pleasant expression as she walked to the trio of wooden steps.

And wasn’t he a serious cutie? she realized as she finally focused on the reality. All that windblown hair and those strong gray eyes. Add the crooked smile, the long, lean body in jeans and flannel, and a woman might be tempted to hang a SOLD! sign around his neck.

She stepped up, held out a hand. “Quinn Black, thanks for meeting with me, Mr. Hawkins.”

“ Cal.” He took her hand, shook it, then held it as he gestured to the door. “Let’s get you out of the wind.”

They stepped directly into a living room that managed to be cozy and male at the same time. The generous sofa faced the big front windows, and the chairs looked as though they’d allow an ass to sink right in. Tables and lamps probably weren’t antiques, but looked to be something a grandmother might have passed down when she got the urge to redecorate her own place.

There was even a little stone fireplace with the requisite large mutt sprawled sleeping in front of it.

“Let me take your coat.”

“Is your dog in a coma?” Quinn asked when the dog didn’t move a muscle.

“No. Lump leads an active and demanding internal life that requires long periods of rest.”

“I see.”

“Want some coffee?”

“That’d be great. So would the bathroom. Long drive.”

“First right.”

“Thanks.”

She closed herself into a small, spotlessly clean powder room as much to pull herself back together from a couple of psychic shocks as to pee.

“Okay, Quinn,” she whispered. “Here we go.”

HE’D READ HER WORK; HE’D STUDIED HER AUTHOR photos and used Google to get some background, to read her interviews. Cal wasn’t one to agree to talk to any sort of writer, journalist, reporter, Internet blogger about the Hollow, himself, or much of anything else without doing a thorough check.

He’d found her books and articles entertaining. He’d enjoyed her obvious affection for small towns, had been intrigued by her interest and treatment of lore, legend, and things that went bump in the night.

He liked the fact that she still wrote the occasional article for the magazine that had given her a break when she’d still been in college. It spoke of loyalty.

He hadn’t been disappointed that her author photo had shown her to be a looker, with a sexy tumble of honey blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the hint of a fairly adorable overbite.

The photo hadn’t come close.

She probably wasn’t beautiful, he thought as he poured coffee. He’d have to get another look when, hopefully, his brain wouldn’t go to fuzz, then decide about that.

What he did know, unquestionably, was she just plain radiated energy and-to his fuzzed brain-sex.

But maybe that was because she was built, another thing the photo hadn’t gotten across. The lady had some truly excellent curves.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen curves on a woman before or, in fact, seen his share of naked female curves alive and in person. So why was he standing in his own kitchen frazzled because an attractive, fully dressed woman was in his house? For professional purposes.

“Jesus, grow up, Hawkins.”

“Sorry?”

He actually jumped. She was in the kitchen, a few steps behind him, smiling that million-watt smile.

“Were you talking to yourself? I do that, too. Why do people think we’re crazy?”

“Because they want to suck us into talking to them.”

“You’re probably right.” Quinn shoved back that long spill of blond.

Cal saw he was right. She wasn’t beautiful. The top-heavy mouth, the slightly crooked nose, the oversized eyes weren’t elements of traditional beauty. He couldn’t label her pretty, either. It was too simple and sweet a word. Cute didn’t do it.

All he could think of was hot, but that might have been his brain blurring again.

“I didn’t ask how you take your coffee.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose you have two percent milk.”

“I often wonder why anybody does.”

With an easy laugh that shot straight to his bloodstream, she wandered over to study the view outside the glass doors that led-as she’d suspected-to the rear portion of the circling deck. “Which also means you probably don’t have any fake sugar. Those little pink, blue, or yellow packets?”

“Fresh out. I could offer you actual milk and actual sugar.”

“You could.” And hadn’t she eaten an apple like a good girl? “And I could accept. Let me ask you something else, just to satisfy my curiosity. Is your house always so clean and tidy, or did you do all this just for me?”

He got out the milk. “Tidy’s a girlie word. I prefer the term organized. I like organization. Besides.” He offered her a spoon for the sugar bowl. “My mother could-and does-drop by unexpectedly. If my house wasn’t clean, she’d ground me.”

“If I don’t call my mother once a week, she assumes I’ve been hacked to death by an ax murderer.” Quinn held herself to one scant spoon of sugar. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Those long and elastic family ties.”

“I like them. Why don’t we go sit in the living room by the fire?”

“Perfect. So, how long have you lived here? In this particular house,” she added as they carried their mugs out of the kitchen.