The first figure on the list was a chipmunk, and Tom had written one hundred and fifty dollars beside it. Next was a fox that he’d priced at two hundred. Then a swimming trout at four hundred dollars, and a snowy owl at two hundred.

Winter smiled at the last figure listed—crow tending young in nest—priced at twelve hundred dollars.

Tom, or Talking Tom as he was affectionately known to the locals, carved a lot of crows. And he always demanded a higher if not sometimes ridiculous price for them. The amazing thing was, Winter had sold quite a few of Tom’s crows in her gallery over the last year and a half. It seemed the more expensive something was, the more desperately the tourists wanted it.

Talking Tom. He was at least seventy years old, had simply appeared in Pine Creek one bright April morning two and a half years ago, and kept mostly to himself. Not much was known about him, other than the fact that he could be heard talking to himself when he walked the woods—thus the nickname Talking Tom. He was also quite good at tending sick animals, and the townsfolk had gotten in the habit of bringing Tom their ailing pets rather than traveling the forty miles to the nearest veterinarian.

As far as Winter knew, Tom had never mentioned his last name to anyone. He had appeared seemingly from nowhere and taken up residence in an old abandoned cabin just east of town, on Bear Mountain, which rose above the eastern shore of Pine Lake.

Winter had immediately taken to Tom, having recognized a kindred spirit. Like her, when creating his artwork Tom endowed the forest and its creatures with a sense of magic and mystery. His carefully carved wooden figures—like her paintings—were often more mystical than realistic.

It had taken Winter nearly a year to persuade Tom to let her sell his delicate figures in her gallery. His wants and needs seemed to be minimal, and a good deal of the money he earned from his carvings was often spent on others. When he was in town, Tom could usually be found in Dolan’s Outfitter Store, and every female—from birth to ninety-nine years old, married or single—would leave the store with a box of chocolates. Rose had started ordering chocolate by the caseload, once she realized Tom’s penchant for spoiling the ladies always kept her in short supply.

“Does she do commissions?”

Winter looked up on an indrawn breath. How could she have forgotten she had a customer in the store? Especially this customer. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“The artist,” he said, nodding toward the wall of paintings, “does she take commissions?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, I’ll take commissions.”

One of his dark, masculine brows arched. “These are your paintings,” he clarified softly, more to himself than her as he looked back at the wall. He studied the large watercolor for another moment in silence, then turned fully to face her, his deep golden gaze locking on hers. “I’ll take Moon Watchers,”

he said. “But I would like to leave it here until I have a wall to hang it on.”

Winter drew her own brows together in confusion. “A wall to hang it on?” she repeated.

He took several steps toward her, then stopped, his mouth lifting in a crooked smile that slammed into Winter like another punch in the gut. It was the smile of a cajoling little boy, and it didn’t belong on a face that…that… masculine.

“I’m building here in Pine Creek,” he explained, “and I would like to leave the painting with you until my home is finished.” He nodded toward the wall while keeping his gaze on her. “You can leave it on display if you wish. That way I can come in and look at it whenever I want. Just put a sold sign in place of the price. Would that be okay?”

She had to stop staring into his eyes! She couldn’t think, much less keep up with the conversation. Well, curses. She was acting sillier than Megan and Rose. Winter tore her gaze from his and searched the counter until she found her sales book under Tom’s list. Then she found a pen.

Next she found her wits, and then her voice again. “I don’t have a problem with you leaving it here. Tell me, what is it that drew ye to Moon Watchers, Mr…. Mr….” She trailed off, her pen poised to write his name at the top of the slip.

She looked up when he didn’t immediately answer and found him standing just two feet away, his golden eyes once again locking on hers. “It’s Gregor,” he said softly, his deep voice sending another shiver down her spine. “Matt Gregor. And I’ve always had a fondness for bears.”

Okay, this was bordering on the ridiculous. He was only a guy. Granted, he was a stunningly gorgeous guy, but she was acting like she’d never even spoken with a man, much less been attracted to one. Winter again forced her gaze from his and wrote his name on the slip. She wrote the title of the painting, and then started to write the price beside it.

A large, unbelievably warm hand covered hers, and Winter stopped breathing. She looked up to find Matt Gregor smiling that little boy smile again, and she could only helplessly smile back.

“Twenty percent discount if I take a second painting,” he said, his beautiful eyes sparkling with challenge. “I also want to buy that small watercolor of the panther.”

Winter slowly—trying very hard not to let him see how disconcerted his touch made her—

slipped her hand from under his. “I’m sorry, but the panther’s not for sale,” she told him. “It’s part of my personal collection. It’s only on display because I had an empty space on the wall I wanted to fill.”

Matt Gregor’s expression instantly turned from that of a little boy to a fully engaged hunter. His eyes stopped smiling, their penetrating stare sending Winter’s heart racing in alarm. “I’ll pay as much for the panther as for Moon Watchers,” he said with quiet force. “No discount on either.”

Double curses! When he looked at her like that, she wanted to give him every painting in the gallery— especially the panther. Winter just barely caught herself from snorting out loud. It was obvious Matt Gregor was used to getting what he wanted.

But then, so was she. “Gesader is not for sale,” she told him, shaking her head to strengthen her words. “Choose something else that you like, and I’ll give you a discount on it.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and studied her much the same way he had studied her paintings. Winter felt a warmth creep into her cheeks, but she stubbornly held his stare, determined not to let him see her discomfort. She decided then that this would be a lesson to her: stunningly gorgeous didn’t automatically mean nice. In fact, it could sometimes be downright rude.

Then again, it could also be exhilarating. Winter couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this provoked by a man. Or felt this warm and fuzzy inside. Or this challenged.

She set down the pen and stepped from behind the counter, walking past Matt Gregor to the east wall of her gallery. She stopped in front of a tiny pastel drawing and crossed her arms under her breasts. “If you like cats, I have this drawing of a Maine lynx.”

She sensed him moving to stand beside her, but she continued to look at the drawing of a confounded lynx that was searching for the hare it had been chasing. In the background, its head just slightly showing above a snowdrift, was a perfectly camouflaged snowshoe hare watching the lynx. “If you’re building a house here, Mr. Gregor, you might consider works depicting local wildlife. We don’t have panthers in Maine, but we do have lynx and bobcat and bear.”

“Where did you come up with the name Gesader?” he asked, not addressing her suggestion.

Looking down the wall until her gaze fell on the small watercolor of the black leopard napping on a large tree limb, she smiled affectionately. “It’s Gaelic for ‘Enchanter.’ ”

“Gaelic,” Matt Gregor repeated, stepping around to face her. “I thought I detected a slight accent. Are you Irish?”