The Return Of Rafe MacKade. Nora Roberts

my wares, Rafe MacKade.”

      “Your wares aren’t half-bad. How much for the dragon in the window?”

      “You have excellent taste. It’s five-fifty.”

      “That’s steep, Regan.” Reaching out, he slipped open the single gold button of her navy blazer.

      She found the little gesture oddly intimate, but refused to comment on it. “You get what you pay for.”

      “If you’re smart, you can get more.” He tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and began to wander again. “How long have you been in town?”

      “Three years last summer.”

      “From?” When she didn’t answer, he glanced back, lifted one of those sexy black brows. “Just making conversation, darling. I like to get a handle on the people I’m doing business with.”

      “We haven’t done any business, yet.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. “Darling.”

      His laugh erupted, quick and charming. Little ripples of response skidded up her spine. He was, she was sure, the man every mother had ever warned her daughter about. As tempting as it was, business was business. And it always came first.

      “I think I’m going to like you, Regan.” He tilted his head. “You sure are a looker.”

      “Making conversation again?”

      “An observation.” With a smile hovering around his mouth, he glanced down at her hands. She wore rings, pretty, glittery stones and twists of gold. “Any of those mean anything that’s going to get in my way?”

      Her stomach fluttered. Her spine stiffened. “I’d say that depends on which way you’re heading.”

      “Nope,” he declared. “You’re not married. You’d have tossed that in my face. So.” Satisfied, he sat on a red velvet love seat, tossed his arm over the curved back. “Want to sit down?”

      “No, thanks. Did you come in to do business, or to talk me into bed?”

      “I never talk women into bed.” He smiled at her.

      No, she thought, he’d just have to flash that smile and crook his finger.

      “Business, Regan.” Relaxed, he crossed his booted feet. “For now, just business.”

      “All right. Then I’ll offer you some hot cider.”

      “I’ll take it.”

      She moved through a doorway, into the back. Alone, Rafe brooded for a moment. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious, hadn’t realized he was quite so attracted. There had been something about the way she stood there, in her tailored blazer and tasteful jewelry, her eyes so cool and amused, her scent just short of hot.

      If he’d ever seen a woman who announced a thorny road, it was Regan Bishop. Though he rarely chose the smooth path, he had too much on his plate to take the challenge.

      Then she came back in on those long, glamorous legs, that pretty swing of hair half curtaining her face.

      What the hell, he thought, he could always make room on his plate.

      “Thanks.” He took the steaming enameled mug she offered. “I figured on hiring a firm out of D.C. or Baltimore, maybe taking some time to hunt through some shops myself.”

      “I can acquire anything a firm in D.C. or Baltimore can, and offer a better price.” She hoped.

      “Maybe. The thing is, I like the idea of keeping the business close to home. We’ll see what you can do.” He sipped the cider, found it hot and pungent. “What do you know about the Barlow place?”

      “It’s falling apart. I think it’s a crime that nothing’s been done to preserve it. This part of the country is usually careful with its historic areas and buildings. But the town ignores that place. If I had the means, I’d have bought it myself.”

      “And you’d have gotten more than you bargained for. The house is solid as rock. If it wasn’t so well built, it’d be rubble by now. But, it needs work…” he mused, and began to picture it all in his head. “Floors to be leveled and sanded and sealed, walls to be plastered or taken down, windows replaced. The roof’s a mess.”

      He brought himself back, shrugged. “That’s just time and money. When it’s ready, I want to put it back the way it looked in 1862, when the Barlows lived there and watched the Battle of Antietam from their parlor window.”

      “Did they?” Regan asked with a smile. “I’d have thought they’d have been cowering in the root cellar.”

      “Not the way I imagine it. The rich and privileged watching the show, maybe annoyed when cannon fire cracked a window or the screams of the dead and dying woke the baby from its nap.”

      “You’re a cynical one. Being rich wouldn’t mean you wouldn’t feel horror if you had to watch men dying on your front lawn.”

      “The heart of the battle didn’t get quite that close. Anyway, that’s what I want—the right colors, trim, wallpaper, furnishings, doodads. The works.” He had an urge for a cigarette and banked it. “How do you feel about redoing a haunted house?”

      “Interested.” She eyed him over the rim of her mug. “Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

      “You will before it’s done. I spent the night there once, as a kid, with my brothers.”

      “Creaking doors, rattling chains?”

      “No.” He didn’t smile now. “Except the ones Jared arranged to scare the guts out of the rest of us. There’s a spot on the stairway that’ll turn your skin to ice. You can smell smoke near the living room hearth. And you can feel something looking over your shoulder when you walk down the hallways. If it’s quiet enough, and you’re listening, you can hear sabers clash.”

      Despite herself, she couldn’t quite suppress a shudder. “If you’re trying to scare me off the commission, you won’t.”

      “Just laying out the blueprint. I’ll want you to take a look at the place, go through the rooms with me. We’ll see what kind of ideas you have. Tomorrow afternoon suit you? About two?”

      “That’ll be fine. I’ll need to take measurements.”

      “Good.” He set his mug aside, rose. “Nice doing business with you.”

      Again she accepted his hand. “Welcome home.”

      “You’re the first one who’s said it.” Enjoying the irony, he lifted her hand to his lips, watching her. “Then again, you don’t know any better. See you tomorrow. And, Regan,” he added on his way to the door, “take the dragon out of the window. I want it.”

      On the way out of town, he pulled his car to the side of the road and stopped. Ignoring the snow and the icy fingers of the wind, he studied the house on the rise of the hill.

      Its broken windows and sagging porches revealed nothing, just as Rafe’s shadowed eyes revealed nothing. Ghosts, he mused, while snow drifted silently around him. Maybe. But he was beginning to realize that the only ghosts he was trying to put to rest were inside him.

      Chapter 2

      The beauty of owning your own shop, as far as Regan was concerned, was that you could buy and sell what you chose, your hours were your own to make, and the atmosphere was your own to create.

      Still, being the sole proprietor and sole employee of Past Times didn’t mean Regan Bishop tolerated any slack. As her own boss, she was tough, often intolerant, and expected the best from her staff. As that staff, she worked hard and rarely complained.

      She had exactly what she’d always wanted—a home and business in a small rural town, away from the pressures