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now. I’ve got to get back to Mick’s. I promised him I wouldn’t be late.”
    That damnable grin danced on Dáire’s mouth. “Now I understand—you’ve been with him the whole time. Taking him camping with us too? Do I need to get a separate tent?”
    Maybe.
    Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “His stepfather’s funeral is tomorrow. I don’t see that happening.”
    “You never know. Grief can be a powerful motivator. All that emotion’s gotta get out somehow.” He shrugged again. “You know how it is. Death requires life. Negative requires positive—there’s one surefire way to make a man remember he’s alive.”
    The suggestion in Dáire’s twinkling blue eyes made Rhiannon’s heart skip several dozen beats. Mick’s gravely whisper rasped in her ears. You’re so alive. I need that, need you. She turned away from Dáire before he could observe the heat that rushed to her cheeks.
    But she couldn’t hide. Not from the brother who was like a twin.
    He let out a low whistle. “Damn, Rhi. Remind me to stay out of your head.”
    “I wish you would.”
    “ Touché .”
    As he arched his hips again and fished out another cigarette, he chuckled. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. I mean, I get the joy, the excitement, even the nervousness. But why fear?”
    Rhiannon turned around and tossed him an exasperated look. “I don’t really need to spell this out for you, and I don’t have the time. I’ve got to change.” With a flick of her wrist, she sent the journal sliding across the tabletop. It stopped when it met the soles of his hiking boots. “Here. Late night entertainment.”
    That ought to shut him up for a while. He loved war. Loved the natural balance that came with clashes of power. He’d find Steve’s notes on ’Nam fascinating, but when he stumbled onto the loose pages of their mother’s spell book that she’d stuffed in the middle of the journal, he’d be awed. By the time she returned tonight, he’d know every nuance of the ritual, and she could pick his mind about how to get Taran to cooperate.
    Before her brother could grill her for details, Rhiannon hurried up the stairs. If she waited too long, he’d find the excerpt and she’d never get out of here in time to make it back for Steve’s wake.
    Inside her tiny room, she plucked the only solid black dress she owned out of her closet. She said a prayer that Mick wouldn’t notice the linen was made for warmer weather, or that the back plunged just a little too low and the hem a tad too high, to be wholly suitable for a wake. But despite the dresses inadequacies, she took it into the bathroom. Lacking the time to deal with wet hair, she washed with a cloth and a bar of soap, and gave her face a quick once-over as well. Makeup she kept to a minimum—a touch of mascara, an even lighter dusting of blush, and an earthen shade of glossy lipstick. She ran a brush through her hair until it cloaked her in shining, loose waves, then slipped the dress over her head.
    Not a date. This is not a date.
    The mantra did little to ease her rapidly snapping nerves. The next several hours would be torture. But she’d given her word, and somehow she had to find the strength to ignore how handsomely Mick filled out a suit. An impossible task given how she’d taken one look at him in the attic and been swamped with the overwhelming, irrational urge to peel that jacket off and become familiar with the hard contours of his body.
    Temptation her darker side reveled in. It would like for nothing more than to have her give in to desire and lose herself to Mick. It won, if she did.
    Damn. Never before had she felt so out of sorts, so conflicted.
    She took a deep breath, exhaled as she counted to twenty, then hurried downstairs. “I’m off.”
    Dáire glanced up from the open journal and threw her a wink. “Heal him good, Rhi. Even if it takes all night.”
    Though he teased, sincerity flashed behind his laughing blue eyes, reminding Rhiannon of all