The dog looked mournfully after her when she drove off, then leaned his big body against Annika.

“It’s all right. I’ll play with you.”

After the others walked off, Sasha stood, staring after the dust the jeep kicked up behind it on the narrow road.

“What is it?” Bran demanded.

“I don’t know. It just feels off. Something.”

“Open to it, Sasha.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed.

“I can’t get there. She doesn’t want me to. I just know she wasn’t telling the truth—or not all of it. I need to clear some of this out. I need to paint awhile.”

“I’ve work of my own.”

“We don’t feel together,” she said as they started for the house. “I don’t mean you and me. I mean all of us. Last evening, it felt we were—or really close. But now, it feels as if we’ve all closed into our separate places. Maybe that’s what feels off.”

“I’d say we’re all a bit tired. It’s been a long day.”

“That’s probably all it is.” But she glanced back at the road again, at the dust settling as they climbed the terrace steps.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sasha painted until the sun bled over the western horizon. She couldn’t quite lose the edgy feeling, but she’d dulled it. She’d hoped to see the jeep drive back by the time she cleaned her brushes, but nothing came up the bumpy little road.

She wanted Riley back, wanted her new family under one roof, however silly it sounded. And because she’d sensed Riley wanted exactly the opposite—and knew just how it felt to need solitude—she made herself go down.

She supposed she’d be in charge of dinner—again—and there wasn’t any point in resenting it just because she was in a bad mood.

But when she stepped into the kitchen, she found Annika carefully chopping peppers.

“Sawyer’s teaching me to cook. I like learning.”

“You catch on quick. Doing a big stir-fry,” he told Sasha. “I figured I’d just toss stuff in. Anything you don’t like, hell, eat around it.”

“I can do that. Anything else I can do?”

“You could crack open a bottle of white. I don’t care what kind. Some for this, some for us.”

“That I can also do.”

It dulled the edge a bit more, watching Sawyer show Annika how to chop and slice, sipping wine while others cooked. And more yet when Bran strolled in, spun her into a kiss.

“It’s pretty,” Annika said, with a long, long sigh. “Kissing’s pretty.”

“Let’s be pretty again.” Bran grabbed Sasha back, dipped her a little this time.

“I’d say you’re not tired now.” Though her pulse skipped and danced, Sasha turned to get Bran a glass.

“I’m making some progress on a spell. Not quite there, but definite progress.”

“That’s just something you don’t hear every day, is it? Progress on a spell.”

“In my world.” Bran took the wine she offered. “Whatever you’re cooking there, Sawyer, smells brilliant.”

“About ten minutes to go, and we’ll see if it tastes the same.”

“Since Annika’s the sous chef tonight, we’ll set the table.” Sasha turned, started to stack six plates, remembered. “I guess Riley’s having dinner with one of her contacts, but somebody should let Doyle know we’re about to eat.”

“I’ll take these.” Bran took the stack of five. “And let him know.”

“Maybe she’ll make it back before we sit down.”

Annika rubbed Sawyer’s arm. “You shouldn’t worry. Riley is very smart and very strong.”

Sasha thought it excellent advice, and tried to take it. By the time they’d finished the meal—with compliments to the chef and his apprentice, as there was barely a grain of rice left—the sun had set, the moon, fat and white, had risen.

“Maybe a couple of us ought to go down and look for her.”

Doyle arched eyebrows at Sawyer. “In what?”

“Your bike?”

“She doesn’t have a curfew, Daddy. If she was the damsel-in-distress sort, yeah, we could go down, slay the dragon for her. But she’s got a Beretta, a combat knife, and a badass attitude. She can take care of herself. Plus.” He wagged his beer. “If she’s hooked up with one of her contacts, she’d be pretty pissed with the white-knight routine.”

“Well, I’m worried, too. I didn’t think she meant it about not coming back tonight. And.” Sasha lifted her phone. “She’s not answering my texts.”

“She answered mine,” Bran commented.

“Yours? When?”

“Before I came down. I just sent her one that asked if all was well. She texted back: Five-by-five. Precisely that.”

“What, precisely, does five-by-five mean?”

“It’s all good,” Doyle told Sasha. “Everything’s fine.”

“She added she’d likely bunk in the village with a friend.”

“What friend?” Sasha stopped herself, huffed out a breath. “None of our business. And Doyle’s right. If anyone’s armed and dangerous, it’s Riley Gwin. I’m just jumpy because I’ve gotten used to everyone being right here.”

Sasha pushed up, grabbed empty plates. “I’m going to do the dishes until I stop being jumpy.”

When the dishes weren’t enough, she scrubbed down the kitchen. She was looking for something else to clean when she spotted Bran leaning against the door watching her.

“Still jumpy then?”

“I can’t get rid of it.”

“I have just the thing.” He grabbed a bottle of wine, two glasses, then her hand. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“We’ll have a drink on the terrace, you and I. It’s as you said earlier, everyone seems to have closed up in their separate spaces. Maybe we all need that for a night. But you and I have another need, to my mind. We’re having a date.”

“A date?”

“We are. A drink on the terrace in the moonlight, conversation about nothing that troubles you. And when I’ve softened you up with the wine, I’ll take you inside and have my way with you.”

“You don’t need the wine for that.”

“You’re a gift to me, fáidh, that’s the truth. But wine and conversation make a nice prelude. You had a bit of that conversation with Doyle on the boat.”

“He asked if I inherited the sight. You know, I never thought of it?” Surprised at herself, she shook her head. “I never asked if someone in the family before me had it. No one ever spoke of it, so I assumed I was the only one. I was the oddity.”

“There’s a difference between the odd and the special.”

“I’m getting there. I think we were—are—so closed up in my family. If there’s a problem, lock it away or cover it with excuses.”

“You’re not a problem—and no one should be allowed, even yourself, to think of you that way.”

“Maybe that’s why it’s been so easy to be part of this—no one considers me a problem. And it’s why it was so easy for me to move away. I love my mother, but we’ve both been fine with phone calls, emails, the rare and short visit. Just not a lot of common ground, I guess.”

“Would you ask her now—if there’d been anyone else in the family with your gift?”

“I might, if I feel a need to know. She’d tell me if I really pushed it. I don’t think she’d lie to me, and I’d know if she did. But . . .” She looked up at the full, white moon sailing over the dark sea. “It doesn’t seem very important anymore.”

She sipped wine, smiled when he took her hand in his. “I used to hate dating, so I gave it up. I’ve changed my mind.”

“We’ll have to make time for a true one.”

“This is true.” More true, more real, more lovely than any she’d ever had.

And perfect to her mind. A soft night, a full moon, the song of the waves, and a hand clasping hers.

He gave her romance again.

When he rose, she stood with him, turned to him.

“Jumpy now?”

“No. But I think I’m going to be.” She wrapped around him. She pulled him close. She took his mouth this time. And reveled in the knowledge she could. “Let’s close ourselves off,” she murmured, “in our separate place.”