“She matters to you, beyond what she is, and what we’re after.”

With considerable care, Bran set the little glass down again. “She’s a beautiful woman with a damaged heart and a bright courage she doesn’t recognize. Yes, she matters, beyond, or I wouldn’t have spoken to her as I did.”

“Okay then.”

Once they’d dealt with the dishes, set the kitchen to rights, Bran went outside, did a couple of circuits around the house. A kind of border patrol, he thought. But he saw nothing but moon and stars and sea, heard no whispering of bat wings, only the rush of water against land and rock.

Pausing, he looked up at Sasha’s room, saw it was dark, her terrace doors closed. He hoped she slept, and peacefully. And hoped to Christ she didn’t come knocking on his door in the night looking beautiful and dreamy. It had been one thing to share her bed, in sleep, the night before. But he accepted doing so again would severely test his will.

She was far too appealing, in all manner of ways.

He considered options, discarded them. And knowing sleep wouldn’t come calling soon, he went back in. There was work he could do while the others slept.

*   *   *

Sawyer sent long, detailed emails home as he did whenever he was able. He tried reading, gave it up, and tried to work. But he was far too restless.

A walk on the beach, he decided. Alone.

For a man who enjoyed companionship, he was often alone and knew how to occupy himself and his mind. He pulled on a jacket, as the night was cool, went out through the terrace doors and down. He could appreciate the fragrance in the air, the way the clouds sailed over stars and moon, the steady heartbeat of the sea.

And could be grateful those clouds were thin, and the moon bright enough to light the cliff steps.

He considered his companions, as he’d written about them.

Riley, sharp, solid, and smart. A traveler, somewhat like him, and a woman who could handle herself. A scholar, but far from fusty. They shared a passionate attachment to science fiction, fantasy, and graphic novels.

Bran? Clever, charming when he wanted to be, and plenty mysterious. Protective. He might’ve been hard on Sasha after dinner, but he’d been truthful when he’d said she mattered. Sawyer sensed Bran would do whatever needed to be done to protect someone who mattered.

And Sasha. Talented—gifted—and conflicted. Unsure of her footing, but she still walked the walk. So he’d give Bran points for insight. She had courage she didn’t recognize. And, Sawyer thought, was certainly the magnet that had drawn them all together.

He wasn’t entirely sure where he fit. After ten years of traveling, he could tell them where the stars weren’t. But the world was a very big place.

He had theories, and he’d come to them through trial, error, and experience. Having someone like Sasha should give them better direction. Maybe.

The other two? They had secrets. But then again, so did he.

A few hours, some drinks, and a couple of meals together didn’t build the sort of trust it took to share secrets. He wasn’t sure, yet, what would.

So, it was wait and see.

He liked the deserted beach, the moonlight floating on the water, the whoosh and whisper of waves. Those waves tempted him to take a quick swim. He’d freeze his ass off, but it might finish clearing his head so he could sleep.

He decided to walk back, and if the urge was still there, strip down and dive in—closer to the cliff steps, the house, and the warmth.

And he saw her, standing on the edge of sea and shore. She looked out at the water, the thin white dress she wore swirling around her knees in the night wind. What seemed like miles of dark hair tumbled down her back.

The sketch, he thought. Sasha’s sketch, alive and in person.

He shouldn’t have wondered, but he did. Shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He started up the beach toward her, kept his eyes on her in case she vanished like a dream.

Instead, she turned toward him, and he saw her face in the splashing moonlight. One of the six in the sketches, one who had stood beside him in the first sketch they’d shown him on the side of the road.

A face made out of dreams, he thought as she smiled and walked toward him. Stunning. Beyond beautiful. Wide eyes tipped just a bit at the corners, a wide, full mouth curved now in what seemed to be both delight and welcome. Skin that looked soft, smooth, and pale gold in the moonlight. Tall and willowy in a thin white dress that flowed in the breeze.

He stopped a foot away from her because with all he’d seen, all he’d experienced, he’d never looked on anything like her.

She said, “Hello,” with a hint of a laugh on the word.

“Yeah, hi. Where did you come from?”

“I’ve been here, for a little while. And you came.” Reaching out, she took his hand. “I hoped you would.”

“Do you know me?”

She only smiled. “I don’t know your name.”

“Sawyer.”

“Sawyer.” She repeated it, carefully. “My name is Annika. I come— I came,” she corrected, “to help you find the stars. Will you take me with you?”

Just like that, he thought.

“Yeah, I think I’d better. We’re up there.” He pointed up to the villa, where—as in the sketch—a single light glowed.

“I have some things.”

“Where?”

“I’ll get them.”

She ran up the beach, the movements almost like a dance, then with a swirl of white dress and long dark hair, she disappeared behind the rocks.

“Wait. Shit.” He ran after her, cursing himself for being so dumbfounded he’d frozen.

But she came out again, carrying two large bags.

Not luggage, exactly, he noted, but two sacks, he supposed, both brightly patterned with trees, flowers, birds, and secured with the sort of clasps you might see on treasure chests.

“Let me get those.”

“You take one, I take one, and the weight is half. The steps are wonderful!” With her one bag, she raced for them. “They go so high. We’ll be closer to the sky.”

“Be careful, they’re steep.”

“Someone always says be careful.” She beamed at him as they started up. “Annika, you are too reckless. But I don’t think so. I only want to try everything.”

Not reckless, he thought, going off with some strange guy in the middle of the night? If not reckless, then way too trusting.

“Oh.” At the top of the steps she paused, laid a hand on her heart. “This is home for you? It’s very beautiful.”

“It’s borrowed. I mean we’re just staying here for a while.”

“I can smell the flowers.” She trailed her hand along flowering shrubs. “And the trees, and the grass. Look at this.”

She stopped to trail her fingers over a low-hanging lemon. “It’s so cool and smooth.”

“A lot of lemon trees around here.”

“Lemon,” she repeated, as she had his name.

“I didn’t bring a key, so we’ll go around and up the back.”

She looked at everything as they walked, went up the terrace steps with him without protest.

Since the light remained on in Bran’s room, Sawyer gave a rap on the terrace doors.

Still in his jeans and T-shirt, Bran opened one of the doors.

“Look who I found.”

“Hello.” Annika smiled at him.

“Annika, this is Bran Killian.”

“Brankillian, hello.”

“Happy to meet you, Annika.”

“I like happy.”

“Sure and who doesn’t? Best take her down—the kitchen, I guess, as this may call for either wine or coffee. I’ll get the others.”

“I like wine,” she said as Sawyer led her down the terrace toward his open doors. “Will I have some?”

“Yeah, we’re loaded.”

“Oh, this is very pretty. All the pictures and the little things. And the bed. Is the bed soft?”

She dropped her bag and sat on the side of it, bounced, then flopped back, arms spread. “It is!”

She flung her arms back over her head, wiggled down. The gesture went straight to his loins. Down boy, he ordered.