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upstairs again. Spaghetti, hold the meatballs. Red meat wasn’t a good idea this close to the cycle. At least not with company around.
    She was having company, not voices reading a book, or faces on television. Human company. It had been a long, longtime since she’d allowed herself to have dinner with a man. Much less in her own territory.
    But it was good. It was normal. She had to continue to do normal things, every day, or when she was well, she wouldn’t know how.
    So she started the sauce, using her own herbs, letting their scent fill the air of her home.
    And she cleaned, housewifely chores combined with a meticulous search to be certain anything pertaining to her condition was locked away.
    She cleaned and tidied rooms he had no reason to visit. In what she considered her personal media center, she scanned the room: huge cushy sofa, the indulgence of an enormous wall screen TV.
    Would he think it odd that among the hundreds in her collection, she owned every movie available on VHS or DVD on werewolves? She wouldn’t be able to explain to him any more than she could explain to herself why she was compelled to watch them.
    She shrugged it off and arranged fresh potpourri in a bowl.
    Then she groomed. A long shower, creams for her skin. She’d leave her hair down. Loose and liberated. Turning at the mirror, she brushed the weight of it off the back of her left shoulder and exposed the small tattoo of a full moon.
    That had been a young, foolish act, she thought now. Branding herself with a symbol of her disease. But it served to remind her of what she was, every day. Not just at the full moon, but every day. And when she was cured, it would remind her of what she’d survived.
    She dressed simply, casually in shirt and trousers, but selected soft fabrics. The sort men liked to touch. The silky shirt of silvery gray caught the light well—and would catch the eye.
    If she decided to take Gabe as a lover, she was entitled, wasn’t she? Entitled to pleasure and companionship. She’d be careful, very, very careful. She’d stay in control.
    She wouldn’t hurt him. She wouldn’t hurt another human being.
    She closed her fingers around the cross, felt the heat of the silver against her skin.
    Back in the kitchen, she took another dose of her pills before setting the table. Were candles obvious or simply atmospheric? And if she had to debate something that basic, she’d gone much too long without human company.
    Her head came up, as did Amico’s, and seconds later the sound of tires on gravel was clearly audible. The dog went with her to the front door, sitting obediently at her command when she opened the door.
    It blew through her again, just the look of him. And that twisting need inside her mocked all her claims about control and care. He carried a bag in one hand, and a bouquet of tiger lilies in the other.
    In all of her life, no one had brought her flowers.
    â€œHi. I come bearing.”
    She took the lilies. “They’re beautiful.”
    â€œI’ve got a big rawhide bone in here, if it’s okay.”
    â€œThanks, but I don’t want to spoil my dinner.”
    He laughed, and with his lips still curved, leaned over the flowers to touch his lips to hers. “Okay, we’ll just give it to the dog. But we get to drink the wine. Didn’t know what was on the menu, so I’ve got white and red.”
    â€œDon’t miss a trick, do you?”
    â€œMy mother raised no fools.”
    He glanced around the living room. The walls were painted a deep, warm green. Like a forest, he thought. The mantel over the stone fireplace where flames simmered held iron candlesticks and pale green candles he was betting she’d made herself. The furnishings were sparse, but what there was, was all color and comfort.
    â€œGreat painting.” He gestured toward the oil over the fireplace. It was a forest scene, deep with shadows, and a lake gone milky