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  His disappointment was palpable. "Okay. Another time."

  Stella nodded casually. "Have a good day, Derek." He left just as she heard a low, ominous growl behind her. She gasped and spun around.

  Gunnar stood there, staring at her, his expression hard. "An admirer?"

  "My deliver boy."

  His mouth tensed. "He has a thing for you."

  She pursed her lips. "I know. I hope he gets over it soon."

  "I'm not so sure."

  "He will. It's a simple crush." She bent to pick up the bags.

  "I got them," he offered as he walked down the hall and picked up the three bags. "Where do you want them?"

  "On the kitchen counter, please." She followed him into the kitchen. "I'll have lunch ready in an hour," she said over her shoulder as she emptied the contents of the bags.

  "Thank you," Gunnar replied.

  By the time she turned around, he was gone. Stella didn't see much of him later as she went about her housework and prepared his lunch and dinner. He offered her a polite thank you both times he finished his meals and she watched him retire back to his room.

  She'd be lying to herself if she said she didn't care, but she would have liked to get to know him better. She hadn't had a customer for a couple of weeks and she would have liked the companionship.

  She loved running her inn, but grew lonely at times.

  Stomping down on the rise of self-pity that threatened to overwhelm her, she shut off all the lights and went to her room. Settling down with a good book always cheered her.

  Chapter Four

  A little after eleven, she got ready for bed and slipped under her sheets. She lay staring at her ceiling. There was silence in the room above hers and she wondered if Gunnar was asleep. Turning on her side, she closed her eyes and sleep followed.

  In the middle of the night, she woke up with a start. An ominous howl came from her back yard and she tensed, hoping it would stop, but it went on and on, stretching out for the longest time.

  Damn. The neighbour's dog was out again, she thought, irritated. She pictured the animal destroying her garden and stiffened. Releasing a frustrated breath, she got out of bed, slipped on her flat sandals and wrapped her robe tightly around her. She'd have to scare it away. And tomorrow she'd have a talk with her neighbours. She didn't want a repeat of last summer when the animal destroyed her strawberry patch.

  She went downstairs and took the flashlight out of the kitchen drawer, testing the on button to make sure it worked. Quickly she slipped outside and stood on her back patio, scanning the beam of light around her lawn. She frowned. Something was definitely out there, past the fence.

  She trained the light on a spot in the far back and gasped. Whatever it was, it looked too big to be her neighbour's German Sheppard.

  She made her way down the steps and walked tentatively toward the back, her light fastened on the spot. As she neared it, the hair at the back of her neck rose. She stopped dead in her tracks and inhaled sharply through her nose. The animal was three times the size of a full grown German Sheppard.

  Fear darted up her spine as she made her way closer to the fence, trying to keep her hand steady. She knew she should turn back and call the police to let them know a strange animal was on the loose, but her legs had a mind of their own. She stopped dead in her tracks. What if it was this animal that was responsible for the horrific killings? What if it wasn't even a dog? What if it was a wolf? She narrowed her eyes, trying to get a better view of the large shadow.

  At about twenty feet away, she sucked in a fearful breath and stared at the large wolf-like dog watching at her through the fence. She kept telling herself to run back inside, but her legs had turned to lead and she couldn't move. The animal was huge, its fur a rich golden brown, its eyes glinting under the moon's glow.

  She took a small step back and the wolf-dog let out a low growl. She gasped softly. Slowly, it ambled closer to the fence and sat on its haunches, staring at her. She gripped her flashlight tighter. Stella couldn't move. She was transfixed by the steady gaze of the wolf.

  "Scat!" she said, waving her light at it. "Go away."

  The wolf howled. This time the sound carried a curious thread of melancholy behind it, almost as though the animal was sad.

  She shook herself out of her ridiculous reverie. Wolves weren't sad. They were dangerous.

  She glided the beam of her flashlight quickly around the lawn by her feet, trying to find anything she could to throw at the fence, but found nothing. She swore. Obviously she wasn't going to find anything because she kept her lawn immaculate. She raised the beam back to the fence and let out a frightened yelp. In those few seconds she had turned her gaze from it, the wolf had managed to vault over the fence and was now on her lawn, staring at her only a few feet away.

  Her heart raced with fear and she took a couple of shaky steps back. She thought of screaming out for Gunnar who was in his room upstairs, but couldn't find her voice. She was in shock.

  The wolf advanced slowly.

  Terrified, she hurled her flashlight at its head and ran back to the house. She slammed the door behind her, gasping for air.

  Shaking uncontrollably, she ran to the hall and sped up the stairs. She'd wake up Gunnar and they'd call the authorities.

  Without bothering to knock, she opened his door and froze. His bedroom was empty. Frowning, she ran downstairs to the gym and froze. Empty.

  Where was he?

  She went into her bedroom and locked her door. With her heart still racing, she sat on the edge of her bed and inhaled deeply. Her sixth sense was in full force and before a crazy notion formed, she shook her head.

  The next morning she was changing a light bulb in her kitchen ceiling fan. God, she was exhausted. Last night she'd hardly slept a wink. The chair she stood on wobbled and she gritted her teeth, trying to maintain her balance.

  "Good morning."

  Gunnar's deep voice jostled her from her perch and the chair rocked. She screamed as she flailed her arms. And then everything moved in slow motion.

  She heard Gunnar's swift intake of breath as she toppled sideways, watching him vault toward her. She didn't even have time to tell him she'd just waxed the floor.

  Before either of them knew what was happening, Gunnar locked his arms around her waist and fell back as his foot skidded over the polished ceramic tiles.

  He groaned as he hit the floor, her body landing directly on top of his.

  Stella was mortified. Slowly, she raised her face to his and stifled the nervous giggle threatening to erupt from her. This wasn't funny. He could have seriously hurt himself. "Are…are you all right?"

  "Yes," he said hoarsely, his gaze flicking to her mouth. "Why is your kitchen floor like an ice rink?"

  "I…I waxed it this morning." A nervous giggle escaped her and she cleared her throat to cover the sound. He stared at her with a suspicious look on his face.

  "You could have warned me," he said.

  "Er…I didn't exactly have time." She couldn't tear her gaze away from his face. His arms tightened imperceptibly around her waist as his eyes flickered to her mouth. She froze as a significant development arose, awareness. Startled, she realised for the first time she could feel every contour of his muscular body.

  "You may find this funny," he said, "but from my vantage point, funny is the last word I'd use to describe having a beautiful woman lying on top of me."

  She felt a thread of alarm. He felt strong and firm beneath her. And…and, oh my God, was he getting aroused?

  Her face flamed with embarrassment and she struggled to rise. With a grim look, he slid his hands around her waist and helped her up.

  Flustered, she slid the chair back to the table and turned around. She saw Gunnar putting in the last turn of the fresh bulb.

  "Thank you. Would…would you like some breakfast?" she asked, taking the let's-pretend-this-didn't-happen approach. With a shaky hand, she placed the morning's paper next to him.

  He lifted a sardonic brow.

  She blushed, realising he'd read her mind.

  "Breakfast sounds great. Actually, I came down to talk with you about something." He glanced down at the paper and frowned. "Dammit. Another murder."

  "I know. It's terrible. The young couple had been biking late last night and were viciously attacked. Both of them had their throats slashed." She shivered. "Actually, last night the neighbour's dog was in my yard and it gave me a fright. For a moment there, I thought it was a dangerous wolf on the prowl." She paused. "I was so scared, I went looking for you, but couldn't find you anywhere."

  His look was guarded. "I was out for a late night stroll. I usually take a walk after writing all day."

  She hid a frown. There was no reason for him to lie, but something told her he wasn't telling her the truth. "Did…did you enjoy your walk?"

  "Yes," he said abruptly, shoving the paper away from him as he took his seat.

  She turned to make a fresh pot of coffee. As it started brewing, she pulled bread and eggs out of the fridge. "French toast okay?"

  "Perfect."

  "So, what was is it you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked.

  "It's my book," he began. "I was hoping to hire you as a consultant."

  She gave him a curious look over her shoulder. "How can I help? I don't know the first thing about writing a book."

  "You know the Tarot. And that's where I'm stuck. My main character is a police detective who's solving a case of a missing child. He's exhausted all his leads and as a last ditch effort, turns to a psychic to help him. She's well respected and has helped the police department with a few of their cases in the past. My problem is I need to make her sound like a credible, believable psychic, especially when she gives him a reading. I've tried ov
er and over again, but the readings I write end up sounding contrived, forced. Hence my writer's block." He nodded his thanks as she placed a mug of coffee in front of him. "I would pay you, of course, and I would only need your help for a couple of days."

  Stella broke the eggs into a wide, shallow bowl and beat them lightly with a fork before she stirred in the sugar, salt, and milk. Thank God she was keeping herself busy because the thought of spending one-on-one time with him left her breathless. "I would love to help," she began slowly as she placed two bread slices into the bowl to let them soak up the egg mixture, "but I'm not sure what you want me to do."

  "I want you to give me a reading, as my female character would on the missing children. I would take notes, reference the words you use, your actions, everything, to give her a credible air."

  She transferred the bread slices onto the heated skillet and turned them over until both sides were golden brown. There was no reason to refuse him. Besides, she enjoyed reading her cards and it wouldn't be like he was putting her out.

  "Will you do it?"

  Stella hadn't realised he was waiting for her response and she gave him an apologetic look. "Of course, but I won't take payment."

  "I insist."

  She placed his plate of French toast in front of him along with hot butter and syrup on the side. She shook her head. "I can't accept payment. I enjoy reading my cards."

  "Thank you." He put a forkful of French toast in his mouth. "This is delicious."

  She blushed, his compliment warming her. "I love to cook." She poured herself a coffee. "Do…do you believe in psychics?" she asked casually.

  He visibly stiffened. "I believe in a lot of things, but psychics are not one of them."

  Stella sipped her coffee, avoiding his eyes. "You don't believe there are gifted people out there?"

  "No." His face darkened. "There are people out there with curses, not gifts."

  She was too stung by his view that psychics didn't exist to comment on what he said. She rose, taking her mug to the sink as he finished his breakfast.

  "Would you mind sitting down with me now?" he asked.

  "Sure," she replied over her shoulder as she rinsed her mug.

  "Thanks. I appreciate your help, Stella."

  "My pleasure." She collected his plate and mug and placed them in the dishwasher. She turned around and nearly jumped when she saw him standing directly behind her. For a big man, he moved as silently as a mouse.

  "Thank you," she said as he handed her the small syrup decanter and butter plate.

  "I'll get my mini-tape recorder."

  She managed to put everything away before he returned. He strode into the kitchen as she was placing her cards on the table. "So how do you want to do this?" she asked.

  "I'd like to ask you questions. Maybe you can show me how you spread the cards. How you would go about starting a reading."

  "All right." She shuffled her cards and placed three in a row on the table. "I use a very simple spread. Three cards, the past, present, and future. And as I draw more cards and lay them on top, the past, present, and future is revealed in detail."

  He gave her an interested look. "I've bought a few how-to books for my research and they all show standard spreads. You don't use The Ellipse Spread or the Five Card Spread?"

  "No. There's actually an infinite number of spreads, the most common one being the Celtic Cross which is a ten card spread, but it really depends on the reader and what spread best suits them. Some psychics use the cards as a tool and let their clairvoyant abilities do the guiding." She folded her hands neatly in front of her. "Now, what is the biggest problem you ran into writing your female character?"

  "The actual reading. Her words, her dialogue sounded forced and phony. She doesn't sound natural or credible as a psychic."

  "Hm. If I give you an actual reading on yourself, would that help?"

  He lifted a brow. "You can read for me?"

  She shrugged. "Sure. That's…that's if you want me to."

  His expression was unreadable. "And you can foretell my future?"

  "It's only for entertainment." How could she tell him she relied on what she saw in her cards? That she based some of her biggest decisions in her life on her readings? He'd think she was either crazy or irresponsible, and neither sounded like good options to her.

  He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "All right then. Give me a reading."

  She focused on the cards until she began to see images and visions dancing about in her head.

  "I can see your struggle with your writing, however, you will overcome your writer's block," she began slowly.

  "That's good to know."

  "I see a name. Jack. No, Jackie." She gave him a careful look. "She's a good woman and understands your struggles right now. She's giving you time and space to heal." His expression revealed nothing, but she could see his body tense.

  "Jacqueline Worth. She's my editor."

  Although she knew he was surprised with her information, she could tell he was trying hard not to show it. She drew three more cards and stared at them. "Hm. Interesting. I keep seeing a red pen."

  "That's the name of my publisher. Fountain Pen Publications. Their emblem is red," he said abruptly.

  She shot him a weary look and pursed her lips regretfully. His expression said it all. "Do…do you want me to continue?" she asked quietly.

  "By all means."

  She stared at her cards and suddenly everything around her grew dark. The hair on her nape rose as a chill surrounded her. "You wear a mask. You're not who you appear to be. Something about your past." A tremor shot up her spine. "Blood. Animals. I keep seeing the…the moon." She gave him a look that said she didn't know what that meant, but he remained guarded, his expression revealing nothing. "This could mean your writing. The werewolves and vampires you write about."

  "Yes."

  She looked back down at the cards and felt a flash of alarm. "This is odd. I see a terrible injustice done to you. Something valuable was stolen from you." She shot him a sharp look. "Were you burglarized recently?"

  He frowned. "No."

  "Or perhaps some of your writing was plagiarized?"

  His frown deepened. "No, at least not that I know of."

  "Can you think of anything that's disappeared recently?"

  He remained silent for a few moments. "Nothing."

  She worried her lower lip and inhaled deeply. "Hm. I have a bad feeling about this. Something's not right."

  He leaned back in his seat and gave her a thoughtful look. "And I'm trying to figure out if this is the entertainment part of the readings you told me about or if there's truth to what you see."

  She was irked. What was the use? He was a sceptic and didn't believe a word she said. Still, what she'd just seen was weighing heavily on her shoulders and she couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. She drew three more cards. Danger surrounded him and a thread of fear darted up her spine. She focused all her energies on her cards. For a few moments, there was nothing--and then she saw it. A glimpse of something significant. It was an old, rusty pickup truck, blue, and the man driving it had longish white, stringy hair and wore a cowboy hat. A wave of darkness assaulted her and she jerked back in her seat, gasping for air. In his back seat, she'd glimpsed a long, bloody wooden stake.

  Gunnar drew forward sharply in his seat. "Are you all right?"

  She tried to calm down. "I…I'm not sure. It could be one of your characters in a book you've written. Someone mentally unbalanced."

  "All my antagonists are mentally unbalanced. What did he look like?"

  "Long, white hair. A cowboy hat. Drove a rundown, blue pickup truck." She stared at him expectantly.

  "I can't say that he sounds familiar. Do you see anything else?"

  She drew another three cards. "The past, present, and future is curious for you."

  "How so?"

  She gave him a careful look. "It's like you're stuck in some kind of limbo where there is no time, an eternity of…of nothing. No movement." He remained expressionless and Stella focused on what the cards were trying to tell her. "You need to face the past in order to live in the present and build your future. That sounds trite, doesn't it?" She gave him an apologetic look. She hated it when her readings didn't even make sense to herself.