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answer the door. That phone cord of yours could stretch all the way downtown, and you don’t know who’s out there,” her brother ordered.
    “Honestly, Trev, the gate is secured at night,” she returned in exasperation, but she followed his instructions, walking toward the door as she spoke. With presence of mind, she turned on the porch light, leaving the entryway dark. The second she looked out the window that flanked the large oak door, she regretted letting her late-night caller know she was awake. For some unknown reason, Logan Herrington was standing on her doorstep.
    “Who is it? Tory?” Trevor’s anxious voice broke into her speculative thoughts.
    “Ah, it’s just Arnette,” she answered quickly, too quickly for her brother’s sensitive ears.
    “Uh-huh, and what does she want since you haven’t even opened the door?”
    “I’ll talk to you tomorrow about the rally.” She hooked the earpiece into its cradle with Trevor still protesting. Putting the phone down on the hall stand, she toyed with the idea of not answering the door, simply turning off the lights and going to bed. She couldn’t give Logan the satisfaction, however, of knowing that she was uneasy about talking to him. Before she could reconsider, she turned the bolt and opened the door.
    The phone began ringing before she could say a word. With a sigh of annoyance, she picked up the phone and lifted the earpiece. Knowing it was Trevor, she demanded, “What?”
    “Tell me who it is, or I’m dialing 911,” he stated, matching her imperious tone.
    “All right, it’s Logan. Are you happy now? And no, I don’t know what he wants because I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet,” Tory snapped, her impatience rising with every syllable. She cut the connection with a decisive click and turned to glare at the subject of her conversation as she thumped the phone back onto the hall stand. Thanks to Trevor’s untimely call, Tory’s plan to leave Logan on the doorstep was ruined. He was only a foot away. Meeting her hard stare with slightly raised eyebrows, he closed the door without a word and shut out the light from the porch.
    “Remind me not to call on you late at night,” he said softly, his voice sounding dark and mysterious in the shadowed entryway.
    “Yes, it is late,” Tory agreed. With what she hoped was a casual move, she took three steps backward into the brightly lit living room. She wondered if Logan would find it strange that she didn’t turn her back on him.
    “I was taking a walk before turning in and saw your light on,” he explained, his steps matching hers. His bland tone and cynical little half-smile told her he knew his explanation was a lie.
    “Yes, I, too, always take a walk with what looks like Daddy’s Napoleon brandy and two glasses.” Defiantly she met his slumberous look—a look as dangerous as a snake’s mesmerizing stare. She wouldn’t let him know how uncomfortable she felt in her nightshirt for anything in the world. The navy garment hung to her knees and the dark material with its bright logo allowed her to stand with her arms at her sides, seemingly at ease.
    “It’s an old New England custom to carry something medicinal on a walk, in case of frostbite.” His twisted smile turned into a predatory grin before he walked further into the room. In easy strides he moved to the lozenge shaped marble-topped table to put down his offering. “Would you care to join me?” he asked over his shoulder as he opened the bottle. When Tory didn’t answer, he turned his head, raising his eyebrows again. “I hate to drink alone.”
    Tory nodded just to keep him occupied. She had no intention of letting him stay long enough for a companionable drink. Standing her ground, showing no sign of the confused emotions that assailed her whenever Logan was near, she accepted the snifter of amber liquid.
    “Well, here’s to the ‘beginning of a beautiful friendship’,” Logan pronounced, lifting his glass