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left the restaurant behind, taking one last glance at the magnificent view of the Boston streets from the top of the Prudential. Serena became quickly aware from Marc’s rough escorting touch that he was less than pleased with her comments. The walk from the Prudential to the Sheraton lounge seemed interminably long.
    I couldn’t lie to him, Marc, she pleaded silently. He would have known I was lying, and that would have been much worse.
    Suddenly corridors and columns and glass merged before her, and she was drifting again. It wasn’t Marc who touched her, but him , and it was that marvelous feeling of being exactly where she belonged, as if she had known a thousand years. She was secure; there was nothing to compare with the security of his complete possession.
    But then that euphoria drifted away; a flush of blood suffused her cheeks, and she felt weak and horrified with shame. It couldn’t have really happened; surely it had been a dream. Dear God, she was a nice person, and nice people simply didn’t do things like that.
    A new horror hit her at that moment. Salem was small; too small. Most visitors were tourists, and she ran a tourist attraction. There was more than a sound possibility that she would run into the man somewhere. She had been so concerned with hiding her own identity, she hadn’t bothered to discover his.
    He was just passing through, she tried to assure herself. And mine certainly isn’t the biggest tourist attraction; I’m being ridiculous, I will never see him again.
    Oh, Lord, what must he think of me?
    And then she was angry, wondering why she should have to feel such terrible guilt and humiliation. He probably didn’t feel a thing—men were supposed to be able to do macho things like instantly hop into bed—or earth, as the case might be—on a moment’s notice. But a woman! No, no, no! That made her terrible.
    I would have thought it terrible myself until today.
    “Serena!”
    She felt her arm gripped sharply and realized she had made a complete circumference through the revolving glass doors.
    “I brought you to help!” Marc hissed in her ear. “And first you make us late—then you won’t support me. And now I’m not even sure you’re with us anymore!”
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Serena murmured quickly, forcing a quick and overly radiant smile to her lips as she noticed Kloon over Marc’s shoulder watching their interlude with a dry, suppressed grin. She hurried her steps to match with the men’s, keeping that smile plastered to her face. “I do love a good piña-colada, Mr. Kloon,” she said easily. Kloon was an extremely pleasant man; it was no difficulty to enjoy his company; she was simply finding the situation difficult.
    “Ahhh, Serena, I thought you might have gone for the smoking brew. I understand that you run a witchcraft museum and shop. Are you a practicing witch yourself?”
    Serena laughed. “No, Mr. Kloon, I do not practice witchcraft, but I have a number of customers who do! All white witches, to the best of my knowledge.” Her smile became more serious. “Witchcraft is a very important business in Salem these days. The city survives off the tourism—and off our good witches! These days, the practices are a lot like any other belief in the raising of the conscious—” She paused and shrugged at a lack of words for the explanation she needed. “Something like yoga, or T’ai Chi, or meditation! The women I know who are involved care about nature, herbs and plants and animals—and people! And being the best that they can be!”
    “You come on well in their defense,” Kloon observed as they entered the lounge, a pretty place with a well-done South Seas flavor.
    “Of course.” Serena laughed. “I’m not a fool!”
    She glanced at Marc, who now seemed pleased with her as he smiled and pulled out a chair, seating her silently before pulling his own chair close.
    “Serena is a wealth of knowledge.” Marc laughed. “She’s almost like