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bed in the house of a crazy man?
    Instinctively, she snatched at the sheets to cover herself, and then she saw the single white rose.
    An incredibly sweet, charmingly romantic crazy man, she thought and picked up the rose before she could resist.
    That story he’d told her—magic and betrayal and five hundred years of punishment. He’d actually believed it. Slowly she let out a breath. So had she. She’d sat there,listening and believing every word—then. Hadn’t seen a single thing odd about it, but had felt sorrow and anger on his behalf. Then…
    He’d kissed her, she remembered. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, stunned at her own behavior. The man had kissed her, had made her feel like rich cream being gently lapped out of a bowl. More, she’d wanted him to kiss her. Had wanted a great deal more than that.
    And perhaps, she thought, dragging the sheets higher, there had been a great deal more than that.
    She started to leap out of bed, then changed her mind and crept out instead. She had to get away, quickly and quietly. And to do so, she needed clothes.
    She tiptoed to the wardrobe, wincing at the creak as she eased the door open. It was one more shock to look inside and see silks and velvets, satins and lace, all in rich, bold colors. Such beautiful things. The kind of clothes she would covet but never buy. So impractical, so frivolous, really.
    So gorgeous.
    Shaking her head at her foolishness, she snatched out her own practical trousers, her torn sweater…but it wasn’t torn. Baffled, she turned it over, inside out, searching for the jagged rip in the arm. It wasn’t there.
    She hadn’t imagined that tear. She couldn’t have imagined it. Because she was beginning to shake, she dragged it over her head, yanked the trousers on. Trousers that were pristine, though they had been stained and muddy.
    She dove into the wardrobe, pushing through evening slippers, kid boots, and found her simple black flats. Flats that should have been well worn, caked with dirt, scarred just a little on the inside left where she had knocked against a chest the month before in her shop.
    But the shoes were unmarked and perfect, as if they’d just come out of the box.
    She would think about it later. She’d think about it all later. Now she had to get away from here, away fromhim. Away from whatever was happening to her.
    Her knees knocked together as she crept to the door, eased it open, and peeked out into the hallway. She saw beautiful rugs on a beautiful floor, paintings and tapestries on the walls, more doors, all closed. And no sign of Flynn.
    She slipped out, hurrying as quickly as she dared. Wild with relief, she bolted down the stairs, raced to the door, yanked it open with both hands.
    And barreling through, ran straight into Flynn.
    â€œGood morning.” He grasped her shoulders, steadying her even as he thought what a lovely thing it would be if she’d been running toward him instead of away from him. “It seems we’ve done with the rain for now.”
    â€œI was—I just—” Oh, God. “I want to go check on my car.”
    â€œOf course. You may want to wait till the mists burn off. Would you like your breakfast?”
    â€œNo, no.” She made her lips curve. “I’d really like to see how badly I damaged the car. So, I’ll just go see and…let you know.”
    â€œThen I’ll take you to it.”
    â€œNo, really.”
    But he turned away, whistled. He took her hand, ignoring her frantic tugs for release, and led her down the steps.
    Out of the mists came a white horse at the gallop, the charger of folklore with his mane flying, his silver bridle ringing. Kayleen managed one short shriek as he arrowed toward them, powerful legs shredding the mists, magnificent head tossing.
    He stopped inches from Flynn’s feet, blew softly, then nuzzled Flynn’s chest.
    With a laugh, Flynn threw his arms