Under her thick sweep of bangs, the woman’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure.”

“Two then, thanks. I’m Sasha,” she said when he left to fill the order. “Sasha Riggs.”

“Riley Gwin.”

“Riley.” A name, she thought, to go with the face. “I know how this is going to sound, but . . . I’ve dreamed about you.”

Riley took another sip, smiled. “It sounds like you’re hitting on me. And you’re really pretty, Sasha, but—”

“No, no, I mean literally. I recognized you because I’ve dreamed about you, for months now.”

“Okay. What was I doing?”

“I can’t expect you to believe me. But the dreams are why I’m here, in Corfu. I don’t— Wait.” The sketches, she thought, and pushed to her feet.

A picture was worth a thousand, after all.

“I want to show you something. Will you wait until I come back?”

Riley only shrugged, lifted her glass. “I’ve got another drink coming, so I’ll be here for a while yet.”

“Five minutes,” Sasha promised, and hurried away.

Sipping her drink, Riley considered. She knew all about dreams, and wouldn’t discount them out of hand. She’d seen and experienced far too much in her life to discount anything out of hand.

And this Sasha Riggs struck her as sincere. Nervy, wound tight, but sincere. Still, she had her own reasons for being in Corfu, and they didn’t include starring in someone else’s dreams.

The waiter came back with a tray, set the drinks, a bowl of fat olives, another of fancy nuts on the table. “The other lady?” he asked.

“She forgot something. She’ll be right back.” Riley handed him her empty glass. “Efkharisto.”

She tried an almond, went back to contemplating the sea, glanced back again when she heard the hurried footsteps—wedged sandals on stone.

Sasha sat again, holding a leather portfolio. “I’m an artist,” she began.

“Congratulations.”

“I’ve had these dreams all winter. They started right after the first of the year. Every night.” Waking dreams, too, but she wasn’t ready to share that much. “I sketched the people, the places in them, the ones that kept reoccurring.”

She opened the portfolio, chose the sketch that had brought her to where she sat. “I drew this weeks ago.”

Riley took the sketch, lips pursing as she studied it. “You’re good, and yeah, this is Corfu.”

“And this is you.”

Sasha laid down a sketch, full body, of Riley. She wore cargo pants, hiking boots, a battered leather jacket, a wide-brimmed hat. Her hand rested on the butt of the knife sheathed at her belt.

As Riley lifted the sketch, Sasha set down another. “So is this.” A head-and-shoulders sketch this time, of Riley looking straight ahead with a curled-lip smile.

“What is this?” Riley muttered.

“I don’t know, and need to find out. I thought I was losing my mind. But you’re real, and you’re here. Like me. I don’t know about the others.”

“What others?”

“There are six of us, including me.” Sasha dug into the portfolio again. “Working together, traveling together.”

“I work alone.”

“So do I.” She felt giddy now, both vindicated and a little crazed. “I don’t know any of them.” She held out another sketch. “I have individual sketches of all of them, and others with some of us together, more with all of us, like this one. I don’t know them.”

The sketch showed Riley, dressed much as she’d been in the other, and Sasha, in boots, pants, a snap-brimmed hat rather than the sandals and flowy dress she wore now. Another woman with hair tumbling to her waist, and three men. Three hot men, Riley thought, all standing together on a trail, forested hills around them, grouped together as if posing for a photograph.

“You— Sasha, right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m Sasha.”

“Well, Sasha, you sure know how to dream men. They’re all smoking.”

“I’ve never seen any of them before, outside of the dreams. But I feel . . . I know them, know everyone here. And this one.”

Unable to resist, Sasha touched a finger to the figure standing beside her, standing hipshot, his thumb hooked in the front pocket of worn jeans. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair—she knew it to be a deep, rich brown—carelessly curling past the neckline of his T-shirt. His smile spoke of confidence, and of charm—and a little mystery.

“What about this one?” Riley prompted.

“He holds lightning. I don’t know if that’s a symbol or what it means. And I dream we—that we . . .”

“Sex dreams?” Amused, Riley took a closer look at him. “You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

“If I’m going to have sex dreams with a man, I’d like to have dinner first.”

Riley let out a bark of laughter. “Hell, a girl can eat anytime. Are you a dream-walker, Sasha?”

“Dream-walker?”

“Some cultures use that term. Do you have prophetic dreams? Why hold back now?” Riley said when Sasha hesitated. “You’re already telling me you have sex with strange men, and you haven’t even had your drink yet.”

“I don’t have to be asleep to dream.” Yes, Sasha thought, why hold back now? “And yes, they’re usually prophetic. I knew my father would leave before he walked out the door when I was twelve. He couldn’t handle what I am. I don’t control it, can’t demand to see, can’t demand not to.”

Sasha picked up her glass and drank, and waited for the wariness or the derision.

“Have you ever worked with anyone on that?”

“What?”

“Have you ever worked with another dream-walker, explored learning how to block it or open it?”

“No.”

“You look smarter than that.” Riley shrugged. “Is it just visions, or do you read minds?”

She might have asked if she painted in oil or acrylics. Emotion clogged Sasha’s throat so thickly she could barely speak. “You believe me.”

“Why wouldn’t I? The proof’s all over the table. Can you read minds, and can you control that?”

“I don’t read minds. I read feelings, and they speak just as loud. I can control it, unless the feelings are so intense they push through.”

“What am I feeling? Go ahead.” Riley spread her arms when Sasha hesitated. “I’m an open book, so read it.”

Sasha took a moment, focused in. “You feel some sympathy for and curiosity about me. You’re relaxed, but on guard. You tend to stay on guard. You feel a need for something that’s always been out of your reach. It’s frustrating, especially because you like to win. You feel a little sexually deprived just now because you haven’t taken the time . . . felt you had the time to fill that need. The work fulfills you, the risks, the adventure, the demands of it. You’ve earned your self-reliance, and you’re not afraid of much. If there’s fear, it’s more for the emotional than the physical.

“You have a secret,” Sasha murmured. “Closed up tight.” Sasha jerked back, frowned. “You asked me to look, all but insisted, so don’t get angry when I do.”

“Fair enough. And that’s enough.”

“I believe in privacy.” She’d never read anyone that openly, that purposefully. It left her flushed, and mildly embarrassed. “I don’t dig into people’s secrets.”

“I believe in privacy.” Riley raised her glass again. “But I freaking love to dig.”

“Your work brings you a lot of pride and satisfaction. What is it?”

“That depends. At the base? I’m an archaeologist. I like looking for things no one else can find.”

“And when you find it? What do you do with it?”

“That depends, too.”

“You find things.” Sasha nodded, nearly relaxed. “That must be one of the reasons.”

“For what?”

“For our being here.”

“I’ve got a reason to be here.”

“But at this time, in this place?” Sasha gestured to the sketches again. “I know we need to look, we need to find . . .”

“If you want my attention you have to spit things out.”

Rather than speak, Sasha pulled out another sketch. A beach, a calm sea, a palace on a hill, all under a full white moon.

And curved under the moon shone three stars.