Faith awoke suddenly from a sound sleep. She scratched absently at the place where her heart charm lay against her skin as she looked down on Lindy.

Lotion and baths with baking soda added to the water had soothed her daughter’s itching enough to let her sleep peacefully for a few hours. Her fever was down. Luckily her case of chicken pox wasn’t very severe.

Careful not to wake her, Faith eased herself off the bed and went to the door, stretching cramped muscles. When she stepped out into the hall, she stopped and listened.

Music. It was faint, but she was immediately stricken by the poignancy of the piece. Every note was filled with longing, with an aching tenderness. The passage swelled with the pain of dreams unfulfilled. Loneliness hung in the silences between the notes.

She followed the sound to the door of the ballroom. Her heart lodged in her throat as she leaned against the doorjamb. Shane sat at the keyboard of the piano, his fingers caressing the ivory keys with the care of a lover. He played with his eyes closed, his face pale in the glow of the piano light. And she could see in his expression every emotion she heard in his music.

The song went on, slow and sad, rising and falling, wrapping itself around her, drawing her into its sensual web. Faith’s eyes filled with tears. Whatever she had chosen to think of Shane Callan, she couldn’t discount what she was hearing now. He was a lonely, haunted man. Those feelings reached out to her and penetrated her soul. They filled her with a sense of abject emptiness so sharp, she nearly cried out from it.

She knew nothing about him. What she had seen thus far hadn’t been Shane, but his defenses. She realized it in a blinding flash, and the knowledge both comforted and terrified her. Knowing there was more to him than cynicism and machismo didn’t change the fact that he was a dangerous man.

His fingers slowed on the keys as the piece softened to its close, a low minor chord that echoed in the still room.

“That was lovely,” Faith said, her voice hushed with reverence.

Shane looked up, startled that she had been able to approach without him knowing it. He was startled too by how lovely she seemed, He couldn’t figure out why. She was wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt that was much too large for her. Her clothes were rumpled. Her mop of rusty blond curls was in complete disarray, looking as if an impatient lover had run his fingers through the mass over and over.

Perhaps this was how she would look after making love-tousled, a rosy blush tinting the apples of her cheeks, her dark eyes sleepy. A fresh wave of heat swept over him at the thought.

Suddenly aware he was staring, he caught himself. Damn, he felt as awkward as an untried kid. Squelching the feeling, he said, “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Faith shook her head, then amazed herself by sitting down beside him on the bench. She faced the opposite direction, her thigh no more than an inch or two from his. It seemed tantamount to going into a cage to lie down beside a panther. But somehow, after hearing his music, she felt less wary of him. He didn’t look like a man to be frightened of now. He looked tired and bleary-eyed and lonely. If that was how he felt, then they had a lot in common.

“How’s Lindy?”

“She’ll be back to herself in a day or so.” She folded her hands on her lap to keep from fidgeting. “Is everything… in place?”

“Yes. Now we wait for him to make the next move.”

She shivered at the prospect of receiving another threatening call. Every time she let her guard down, she could hear the ugly menace beneath the silky, faceless voice that had promised death.

Unable to stop himself, Shane lifted a hand and brushed back a curl from her cheek. “He won’t get to you. I won’t let him.”

“I don’t mean to be a coward,” she whispered, trying hard to ignore the warmth of his knuckles against her skin. She told herself she had imagined the possessive tone of his words. She was romanticizing again. “This all just seems so… unreal.”

Shane nodded. He imagined it did seem unreal to her. The threat of death was something that belonged in his world, not hers. Chicken pox and pot roast should have been the extent of her worries. “You’re no coward,” he said. “I think you’re very brave.”

“A compliment?” She had to force the smile, but the surprise in her eyes was genuine, and so was the warmth that blossomed in her heart. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” Shane said with a wry, weary grin that made him look devilishly handsome. “Not all of them are unpleasant.”

Faith said nothing but rubbed her pendant absently between her thumb and forefinger as she looked down at the floor. He was full of surprises all right, just like Pandora’s box. And like the girl in the story, Faith knew an irresistible urge to open the box. Not smart, Faith, she told herself.

“You realize now you have no choice but to delay the opening of the inn.”

“I know. I’ll call everyone and tell them the plumbing isn’t ready. Nothing puts people off quite like the thought of malfunctioning commodes.”

Shane chuckled, ignoring the throbbing it set off in his head. He was surprised Faith had any sense of humor left. She’d been threatened and bullied and run ragged over the last couple of days, yet she seemed to have a reservoir of inner strength to call on when she needed it. There was a hell of a lot more to the former Mrs. William Gerrard than met the eye. And what met the eye held a lot more appeal than it should have.

“Faith,” he began, fighting the urge to touch her again. He was beginning to have trouble concentrating on anything other than the delicate shape of her mouth and the memory of how sweet she had tasted. He had to apologize now, just get it over with and get away from her. “I was out of line last night. I had no right to accuse you of anything. I’ve seen the worst side of people for so long, I guess I’ve just come to expect it. I’m sorry.”

“First a compliment, now an apology.” Faith shook her head. “Really, Mr. Callan, you’re making me giddy,” she said, teasing lights sparkling in her dark eyes as she fanned herself with her hand.

“Is the apology accepted?”

She nodded but didn’t look at him. Was he apologizing only for his belief in her culpability or for the kiss as well?

Overhead the sound began. Ker-thump… ker-thump… ker-thump…

Shane tensed. Faith smiled. “It’s Captain Dugan.”

He stared at her as if she’d suddenly begun speaking Portuguese. “Who?”

“The man who built the place.”

“He’s dead.” His statement held all the finality of the fact.

Faith rolled her eyes. “I know that. It’s his ghost. Ask anyone in Anastasia. They’ll all tell you the same thing. This house is haunted.”

“Californians,” Shane grumbled, scowling darkly.

“Skeptic,” Faith countered. A man like Shane Callan wouldn’t believe in anything that couldn’t be admitted as evidence in a court of law. She suddenly found the trait oddly endearing and decided she was losing her marbles. “Of course it’s Captain Dugan. He had a peg leg. The other ghosts here don’t make any racket at all.”

Shane’s brows lifted. No one had warned him he would be guarding a crazy woman. “Other ghosts?”

Faith’s look was one of feminine wisdom and mystery. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Mr. Callan?”

Not the kind that haunted houses, he thought. He knew well the ghosts that haunted one’s soul were all too real, but dead sea captains with peg legs were a whole different thing.

He frowned at Faith as he rose from the piano bench, his head swimming as he did so. He ignored the dizziness as he had all day. It was nothing more than fatigue.

Easing his gun from its holster, he said dryly, “I believe in justice, football, and Smith and Wesson. Go to your room, lock your door, and stay put.”