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come to his window that night. "We went across the top of the porch and down the side and the witch never even knew we were gone, did she, Kim?"
    "No," she agreed, smiling affectionately at the Youngster. "She never even knew. Rather like Hansel and Gretel." "I told Kim you would have paid anything to get me back, isn't that right, Uncle Dare?" Holding the hand of the man with happy possessiveness, Scott looked up at his uncle for confirmation. "Anything," Cavenaugh had agreed. Kimberly had seen the grim protectiveness in the depth of the man's gaze and had known he spoke the truth. Cavenaugh would have done more than pay a ransom to get Scott back. He would have killed to save the boy. The stark realization of just how far this man would go to fulfill his obligations had sent an odd shiver down her spine. "Kim doesn't have anyone who would pay to get her back if someone took her away," Scott went on before Kimberly realized what he was going to say.
    "But we would pay, wouldn't we, Uncle Dare?" Cavenaugh had looked straight into Kimberly's embarrassed gaze and had said with absolute conviction, "We would do anything we could for Miss. Sawyer. She has only to ask." later, after the long talk with the authorities, Cavenaugh had taken Kim aside and reiterated that vow. Recognizing the powerful sense of obligation by which Cavenaugh had felt himself bound, Kimberly had quickly promised to call on him should she ever need help. At the time, of course, she had never anticipated such an occasion. Yet his face was the first thing she had thought of when the arrival of the rose sent a shaft of fear through her. And now he was here. But there was a new element in the situation. In addition to the sense of obligation he felt toward her, there was no mistaking the fact that Cavenaugh wanted her physically. When it came to dealing with the sensual tension he evoked in her, Kimberly knew she was trying to handle something just as strong as any witchcraft. But it was a comfort to know he was out there in her living room tonight. Normally she did not mind spending the nights alone. Tonight, she realized, would have been an exception. The knowledge that Cavenaugh was close by soothed the lingering fear the arrival of the rose had caused. She soon fell asleep. When she awoke several hours later the storm had slackened somewhat but the wind continued to hurl rain against the windows behind the drawn shades.
    Kimberly heard the sounds of the storm only vaguely. Her main awareness was of being thirsty. Too many salty black olives on the potato tonight. Hovering in that floating region between wakefulness and dreams, she wondered if she could get back to sleep without making a trip out to the kitchen for a glass of water. But the growing thirst finally had its way. Still half asleep, Kimberly pushed back the quilt and padded barefoot to her bedroom door. Dimly she wondered why she had closed it tonight. She never closed her door. After all, there was hardly any need. She was always alone in the house. Wrenching it open in annoyance, she continued on down the hall to the open kitchen. There was a faint flow of light from the fireplace and Kimberly vaguely remembered that the electricity was off. It was getting cold, she realized. The oversized man's cotton T-shirt she habitually wore to bed barely covered her derriere. One of these days she was going to remember to buy some real pajamas. There was a robe hanging in her closet but it had seemed too much bother to drag it out just for a short trip to the kitchen. With comfortable familiarity she found the cabinet door in the darkness and groped inside for a glass. Then she shuffled over to the sink and ran the water. The shade on the kitchen window had been left up this evening, and as she stood barefoot in front of the sink, drinking her water, Kimberly stared disinterestedly out into the darkness. If she was careful she could stay in this half-asleep state until she crawled back into bed. She had