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the soft waves of sable hair that dusted across her shoulders in a silken caress. Before, in the bay window, he had caught the scent of her shampoo, a hint of citrus and sunshine to clash with the outside rain.
    Megan fascinated him. She seemed so genuine, her emotions worn out on her sleeve, although she probably thought she did an admirable job of hiding them. Unfortunately, the raw emotion he discerned most was fear.
    What was Megan Summers afraid of?
    And why in the world did he care?
    Maybe he could trivialize his reaction by saying that she was just hot. That gorgeous hair with each shiny strand a new shade of chocolate, making him yearn to lift the mane and see what colors lurked beneath. Or that lean body that looked great in jeans and a turtleneck, making him want to see those legs in shorts…or less. There was no doubt she was a tempting package, but that was not the sole reason for the attraction.
    Megan turned around, the cord of the phone dangling across her shoulder. She met his eyes.
    That was it .
    Haunted was the most prevalent emotion on Megan’s face. Shadowed eyes, darkened to a shade of midnight by torment, could consume him if he wasn’t careful.
    “Yes, yes, he’s still here. All right, Harriet. Thanks.”
    Coughing into his hand, Jake hefted an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
    Instead of answering, Megan crossed to the kitchen window and leaned to look outside. God help him. He caressed her curves with his eyes as she bent over, and jerked his glance up when she turned around. She stood with her arms crossed and chewed on her bottom lip.
    “Harriet says the bridge is out.”
    If he had smiled at that declaration, he probably would have earned a slap. Instead, Jake spoke sensibly to the woman who’d started to shake again.
    “How long is it usually out?”
    Megan turned back to the window. He saw what she saw. The deluge persisted but seemed all the more treacherous as night beset them.
    “When the rain stops.”
    “And when is the rain supposed to stop?”
    Stark eyes met his. “Monday.”

Chapter Four
    “Alright, look. You’re obviously uncomfortable with me being here. It’s okay, I understand that. I can sleep in the car and when the rain breaks, I’ll just drive away.”
    “It’s not going to break for three days.” Megan’s voice cracked. “And don’t be ridiculous.”
    A long sip of coffee, a deep breath, and she seemed to regain some control. “I have several bedrooms upstairs—that is, if you don’t mind a little dust.”
    Jake sank onto one of the oak arrowback chairs and placed his hands on his knees as he tipped his head and listened to the sounds of the house. Within the confines of Wakefield House, the heavy rain was muted to a dull throb, like someone was popping popcorn on the third floor. Age produced its own unique symphony, with a multitude of subtle creaks and groans orchestrated by the wind. And here in the kitchen, the refrigerator motor whirred and joined the cantata.
    “Do you hear that?” He was filled with awe.
    Megan frowned. “Hear what?”
    “When I fall asleep at night,” he said quietly, “I hear sirens on the street below. I hear the college kids getting out of the local pub at two in the morning. I hear dogs barking at the college kids, and I hear the next-door neighbor’s alarm go off at five, shortly followed by the thud of newspapers growing closer and then passing by. And somehow I manage to doze a few more minutes, but soon a man with a jackhammer will start chopping up the sidewalk at 6:00 a.m.” He hesitated. “But in this house, there are no sounds of life. I mean, none of the energy or activity of the city. Just peace.”
    There was that beguiling semblance of a smile on Megan’s face. Such a timid gesture. It tugged at him, making him feel he was privy to a sight few had beheld.
    “What I hear,” Megan whispered, “is the wind. It sounds like a woman.” She continued, “A woman crying. And no matter what room I go to, she