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down her nose. Their eyes met in mutual surprise. “You’ve dust on your face,” he mumbled.
    â€œOh.” Laughing, Shane brushed at it herself.
    â€œHere.” Vance traced the rough skin of his thumb down her cheekbone. Her skin felt as it looked: soft, creamy. It would taste the same, he mused, allowing his thumb to linger. “And here,” he said, caught up in his own imagination. Lightly he ran a fingertip along her jawline. He felt her slight tremor as his gaze swept over her lips.
    Her eyes were wide and fixed unblinkingly on his. Abruptly, Vance dropped his hand, shattering the mood but not the tension. Clearing her throat, Shane pushed open the door.
    â€œThis—umm . . .” Frantically, Shane gathered her scattered thoughts. “This is the master,” she continued, combing nervous fingers through her hair. “I know the floor’s in bad shape, and I’d like to skin whoever painted that oak trim.” She let out a long breath as her pulse began to level. “I’m going to see if it can be refinished.” Idly, she touched a section of peeling wallpaper. “My grandmother didn’t like changes. This room hasn’t altered one bit in thirty years. That’s when her husband died,” she added softly. “The windows stick, the roof leaks, the fireplace smokes. Basically, the house, except for the dining room, is in a general state of disrepair. She never had the inclination to do more than a patch job here and there.”
    â€œWhen did she die?”
    â€œThree months ago.” Shane lifted a corner of the patchwork coverlet, then let it fall. “She just didn’t wake up one morning. I was committed to teaching a summer course and couldn’t move back permanently until last week.”
    Clearly, he heard the sting of guilt in her words. “Could you have changed anything if you had?” he asked.
    â€œNo.” Shane wandered to a window. “But she wouldn’t have died alone.”
    Vance opened his mouth, then closed it again. It wasn’t wise to offer personal advice to strangers. Framed against the window, she looked very small and defenseless.
    â€œWhat about the walls in here?” he asked.
    â€œWhat?” Years and miles away, Shane turned back to him.
    â€œThe walls,” he repeated. “Do you want any of them taken down?”
    For a moment, she stared blankly at the faded roses on the wallpaper. “No . . . No,” she repeated more firmly. “I’d thought to take out the door and enlarge the entrance.” Vance nodded, noting she had won what must be a continuing battle with her emotions. “If the woodwork cleans off well,” she continued, “the entrance could be framed in oak to match.”
    Vance walked over to examine it. “Is this a bearing wall?”
    Shane made a face at him. “I haven’t the slightest idea. How do—” She broke off, hearing a knock at the front door. “Damn. Well, can you look around up here for a few minutes? You’ll probably get the lay of things just as well without me.” With this, Shane was dashing down the steps. Shrugging, Vance took a rule out of his back pocket and began to take measurements.
    Shane’s instinctively friendly smile faded instantly when she opened the door.
    â€œShane.”
    â€œCy.”
    His expression became faintly censorious. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
    â€œOf course.” With a restraint unnatural to her, Shane stepped back. Very carefully, she shut the door behind him but moved no farther into the room. “How are you, Cy?”
    â€œFine, just fine.”
    Of course he was, Shane thought, annoyed. Cy Trainer Jr., was always fine—permanent-pressed and groomed. And prosperous now, she added, giving his smart-but-discreet suit a glance.
    â€œAnd you, Shane?”
    â€œFine, just fine,” she said, knowing the