“Let’s live dangerously and take a dip in the spring,” Ariel said

“If I get love-struck I may never go home.” Rex rose, pulling her up with him.

“Why do I feel like a guinea pig?” she asked.

“Because I’m a born scientist. I need to explore every inch of my subjects.” He smoothed her dress down, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the soft curve of her belly. “If Romeo’s in the water,” he promised, nuzzling his face against her neck as they began to walk toward the spring, “the outcome could be very dangerous.”

“That’s my hope,” Ariel said. “And because you’ve already gathered all your samples and the bug only stays in the bloodstream a week, things could work out perfectly….”

Rex knew he was acting uncharacteristically, but surely that was only because she was so gorgeous.

“A week of sexual bliss,” he murmured.

Sexual bliss indeed…

Dear Reader,

I hope you’re ready for a hot, wild, sexy read!

West Virginia, with its lush mountains and deep river valleys, seemed just the place to set a humorous story with a taste of mystery. At first, sexy Rex Houston, a doctor from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, isn’t that thrilled about taking a trip to the tiny town of Bliss, but everything changes when he meets Ariel!

Enjoy their love story!

Jule McBride

Something in the Water…
Jule McBride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

1

Bliss, West Virginia

“TELL US ABOUT Matilda Teasdale again, Pappy,” urged sixteen-year-old Jeb Pass. He blew blond bangs from brown eyes, then glanced at his gangly dark-haired buddy, Marsh, who was seated next to him on a fallen tree limb, staring across the dying campfire at Jeb’s grandpa. Pappy tugged his beard and petted his gray mutt, Hammerhead; the dog was curled up, his tail twitching in tandem with a red bandana around his neck, as if he were chasing rabbits in his dreams.

“Seems to me,” Pappy mused, “by now you ought to know all the stories about Matilda by heart. You boys were born and bred in Bliss, and with Jeb being a history buff and all, too.”

“C’mon, Pappy,” Jeb insisted. “Was she really a witch?”

“Or just some weird lady from England?” Marsh squinted.

“I bet she was a witch,” said Jeb. “I even bet they tried to burn her at the stake, the way everybody said. That’s why she came to America in the first place. Huh, Pappy?”

Pappy considered, surveying the star-studded night sky. “I reckon no one really knows, seeing as Matilda came to Bliss in the 1700s. She’d brought enough money to the one-block mining town to build the house overlooking the spring. People claimed she’d come with only a Native American guide to help carry two worn leather trunks. It was said he was a Cherokee medicine man who’d offered Matilda safe passage across the mountains in exchange for her secret blends of curative teas. Some said she wasn’t a witch at all, but that she came to Bliss because her teas could only reach full potency when blended with the world’s finest water.” Pappy smiled. “And that means from Spice Spring.”

“But how’d she hear about the spring if she was living in England?” Marsh asked.

Pappy shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, kid.”

Suddenly shuddering, Jeb stared across the spring, settling his gaze where the surface glimmered under moonlight. When his eyes found the opposite shore, they floated up the stone steps carved into the mountainside and stopped at the top of the hill, on the old Victorian house that local kids had nicknamed Teasdale’s Terror.

The women who lived there now each went by the last name of Anderson, not Teasdale, but they were related to Matilda. Anderson was a name that one of the women—no one really knew which one—had gotten by marriage. How summer visitors managed to stay in the huge house, now a bed-and-breakfast, Jeb would never know. The place looked about as homey as Dracula’s castle. He wondered if Michelle McNulty had really bought magical teas there last summer, the way she’d claimed. Every year, Michelle came from Charleston with her family and rented a cabin on the water, but this year she seemed…well, grown up.

It wasn’t just that she’d gotten a job waitressing at Jack’s on Bliss Run Road, then had started moonlighting by helping to construct booths for the upcoming Harvest Festival, taking place at the end of the week. There were other changes, like how she’d filled out under her T-shirts more than most soon-to-be high-school freshmen. When she fixed Jeb a pie or soda, he could see her breasts sway under cotton and even make out her nipples pointing out, thanks to the air-conditioning Jack blasted in the diner.

This summer, Michelle had quit holding Jeb’s gaze, as if she’d realized her looks were affecting him and couldn’t handle it. Not that Jeb could offer any advice, but he did have fantasies of sitting beside her in the Bliss theater, the only place in town showing first-run movies. Afterward, he figured he might cup her knee with his hand, then run it ever so slowly upward on her thigh….

“Ah,” murmured Pappy, following Jeb’s gaze, “The Teasdale Terror House.”

“Now, are those witches really related to Matilda?” asked Marsh, speaking of the Andersons—the great-grandmother and two generations of daughters. A fourth Anderson, Ariel Anderson, had flown the coup years ago. “Maybe they really did kill their husbands,” he added darkly. “That’s what some people say.”

“I don’t think they’re witches,” Pappy chided. “When you see them in town, you know as well as I do that they’re always polite.”

“A cover,” assured Jeb.

Pappy chuckled. “They do dress weird.”

“All in black,” added Marsh. “Like someone died.”

“Their husbands.” Jeb nodded with assurance. “The oldest one’s got to be a hundred years old. They say she still moves like lightning, and uses a broomstick, instead of a cane. None of them ever go to the movies or take vacations.”

Marsh looked vindicated. “And they sell those teas.”

Pappy smiled. “The ladies do own a tearoom, boys.”

“They don’t have friends,” Marsh continued.

“And no one will go up there in the winter,” added Jeb, although he’d done so on a dare once. It had been a snowy night, and when he’d reached the wraparound porch and prepared to ring the doorbell, the wind had picked up, howling in his ears, and he’d wrenched around, staring toward the woods where Marsh and their buddies had sworn they’d wait. He’d seen only evergreens, which he’d figured sheltered everything from ghosts to bobcats.

Just as he’d been about to press the doorbell, Jeb had heard a branch break. Wolves in the woods, he’d thought, then leaves had rustled, and Jeb had realized, someone—or something—was pushing aside the underbrush, moving toward him, steadily.

That’s when Sam Anderson—Sam was short for Samantha—had swung open the heavy front door so swiftly that it had snapped backward on its groaning hinges; the heavy brass demon-head knocker clanked and wind ruffled a white apron Sam had worn over a long black dress. She was Granny Anderson’s daughter and Ariel’s mother. “What are you doing out there, Jeb Pass? Why, you’d better come in. It’s colder than a witch’s—” Chuckling, she’d cut off her speech and scrutinized him through devilish eyes.

Spinning around, he’d run all the way down witches mountain, sure that whatever he’d heard chasing him was huge and hairy, with claws that could shred him to pieces. Of course, that had been years ago. Way back in seventh grade.

“In the winter, all they do is read books from the library,” Marsh was saying.

“Giblets is the only one they ever talk to. Miss Gibbet,” Jeb corrected. Elsinore Gibbet, the librarian, was well past sixty and as scrawny as a chicken, with extra skin under her chin and a chirpy voice that had inspired local kids to call her Chicken Giblets. Jeb continued, “At the library, she showed me a history book that says weird stuff’s always gone on in Bliss, Pappy. Starting in the 1700s—”

“After Matilda came to town,” Marsh put in.

“They say there started to be periods of time when…”

“Something goes…well, buggy,” Pappy suggested.

Jeb nodded. “And because of it, Miss Gibbet said people used to come from all over the place, just to swim in Spice Spring.”

“From as far away as China,” continued Marsh.

“Especially during summers like this one,” Pappy added. “When the water’s been chilled by a series of cold snaps, then the weather heats up again. And during such a summer, when the sun, moon and stars align just right, they say a dip in Spice Spring can change your life. Especially your love life.”

Jeb thought of Michelle and felt his cheeks warm.

Pappy went on. “At the end of the summer, folks used to come here from bigger towns to bottle the water. And of course, they’d head up the hill, to the Andersons’, for medicinal teas.”

Jeb thought of the mysterious book of tea recipes said to have been handed down by Matilda. According to rumor, the book had a cloth cover and pages so yellow and brittle that it had to be kept in a safe in the witches’ root cellar.

As every kid in Bliss knew, the Anderson women had taken to hiding from the public and wearing black. Except for the youngest one, Ariel. When she’d kissed the witch house and tearoom goodbye and roared out of Bliss on her Harley Davidson motorcycle eleven years ago, she’d been wearing red fishnets, a tight leather miniskirt and a top that had looked more like fancy underwear. Jeb had only been five years old, but it was the sort of moment no one ever forgot.

Later, he’d heard all the hot gossip about the sexy things she’d done with Studs Underwood, years before he’d gotten elected sheriff. Even now, Jeb’s face colored, since some of the local guys could get pretty descriptive when it came to tales of Ariel.

“When the moon’s just right and the stars align,” Marsh began again. “And they make teas with water from Spice Spring…is that when you get cured from whatever’s bothering you?”

“Not so much illnesses,” said Pappy. “But matters of the heart. You know, sadness. Loneliness. That sort of thing. At least, that’s what I always heard. And of course, those women make love potions.” Pappy raised a bony finger. “But don’t you start getting ideas about stealing that book of theirs. Attempts have never been successful.”

“I’d hate to get the widows mad,” admitted Marsh.

“I remember,” Pappy continued, “just a couple years back, the sheriff got called up to the tearoom. Somebody had taken a hatchet to the root-cellar door, tied a rope around the safe and tried to drag it up the steps.”

“Guess they couldn’t get it open,” Marsh offered.

“I heard about that,” said Jeb. “It took three men to haul it back downstairs.” He followed his grandfather’s gaze over the water. The source of the spring was deeper than Jeb and his buddies could dive, although they’d spent summers trying. Once, Jeb had gotten close enough to feel the heat bubbling from beneath; it was as if a hole had opened onto the earth’s fiery core.

The spring’s source was directly under the mountain on which Terror House was perched. It was as if the spring itself had given rise to the steep, conical, lushly vegetated hill, as well as the house that sat on top, like a dark cherry. It was weird, Jeb thought, how the spring, rather than coal, had become the town’s black gold. That, and the visitors summering there.

“At least the Core Coal Company didn’t wind up strip-mining here,” Jeb said.

Pappy nodded his agreement. “If they’d done that, you wouldn’t see a spot of green left in these hills.”

Jeb had been studying that piece of town lore, so he knew that, in the late seventies, when the economy had been at its worst, the Lyons family had begun to buy land, promising to develop the area as a summer resort. Later, everyone had found that the consortium they’d belonged to was actually planning to strip-mine, which would have left the hills barren. Without vegetation to filter rainwater, the crystal spring would have been destroyed.

Jeb sighed. None of that had happened, thankfully. Eli Saltwell, now a crotchety old recluse pushing ninety, had uncovered the plot and told everybody in town. So, Bliss had become a summer resort, but one run by locals, not the consortium. It didn’t have the promised fancy hotels, but then, most people felt that was just as well, since out-of-towners came anyway.

In another week, after the Harvest Festival, the summer visitors would be gone, though. Michelle would be gone. Jeb’s heart squeezed in a way that was both unwelcome and unfamiliar. He’d give anything to kiss her once. Maybe even slip his hand under her shirt and cup a breast. His throat tightened as he imagined her sweet pink lips parting, asking for more….

Pappy’s voice drew him from the reverie, and before Jeb could concentrate on the words, he was conscious once more of the thick, dark blanket of air around him, and of the red-yellow glow of logs crackling on the fire, not to mention the pup tent and his unrolled sleeping bag. He heard the hoot of an owl, the whine of crickets, and then stared up at the impossibly yellow globe of a full moon hanging in the sky, bisected by the turret.

It was pure magic.

“It really is one of those special years,” Pappy mused. “We’ve had a series of early cold snaps, and now summer’s back in the air. Once—I guess it was way back in 1790—not long after Matilda arrived, they say we had this kind of strange weather. Unpredictable. Cold then hot, with a few electrical storms thrown in for good measure. They say, for about a week, everything in Bliss…”

Jeb and Marsh scooted on the log, as if to get closer to Pappy. “What?” Jeb said.

“Went silent,” Pappy continued. “A woman named Nellie White was supposed to travel to see her mama over in Buchanan, but never went, as she’d promised. And they say Archibald Evans, the blacksmith, didn’t get out of Bliss to shoe some horses, even though he had an appointment. The local paper—it was only one sheet long in those days—wasn’t delivered the way it was on most Fridays.”

Pappy paused. “They say it happened again, not long after that, too, back in 1806.”

“I heard a train came through. They’d built the tracks by then,” said Marsh. “But it didn’t leave the station for a week, and the conductor would never say why.”

“And in 1865, right?” added Jeb, his voice quickening. “That’s what Gib—uh, Miss Gibbet—told me and Marsh.”

“Yeah,” agreed Marsh. “She said it was during the Civil War. The North was coming one way, and the South was coming another—”

“But both sides laid down their weapons,” continued Jeb.

“And no one knows why,” Pappy finished.

Jeb nodded. “Miss Gibbet said the war picked right back up, though.”

“And then she said that in 1943—” began Marsh.

“When the munitions factory was here—”

“It didn’t deliver orders for guns,” said Jeb. “There was a blackout, too. And no phone service. Planes flew overhead, and pilots said, from the air, the town looked totally dark.”

“Now, if all that was true,” said Pappy with a soft chuckle, “you’d think the U.S. government would get involved. Still, according to statistics, they do say a lot of babies have been conceived during those lost weeks. In fact, my mama got pregnant with me during the blackout of forty-four, if you must know.”

Jeb said, “No way!”

Pappy crossed a finger over his heart. “So I’m told. There’s no pattern to when the town…well, goes silent. But they do say it happens when the weather’s like this.”

Marsh guffawed. “Wish it would happen week after next, after the Harvest Festival.”

“Fat chance,” Jeb said, trying not to think of the festival, and his last chance to get closer to Michelle. “That’s when school starts.”

“A blackout the first week of school. You two should be so lucky.”

Lucky. Warmth flooded Jeb’s cheeks. He sure wished he could get lucky with Michelle. Leaning, he lifted his canteen, unscrewed the cap, then took a deep swig. One thing was certain—the springwater that was purified in the reservoir then pumped into local homes was the best stuff Jeb had ever tasted. It had none of the aftertaste Jeb had tasted in city water—not the hints of metal, nor the soapy texture he couldn’t stand. Nope. Despite the heat that came mysteriously from its hidden source, Spice Spring always stayed as crisp as a winter morning, and the water seemed to bubble when it hit your tongue. No doubt, the spring delivered the champagne of water. Jeb took another deep draft, and just as he did, he imagined spending a lost week in Bliss with Michelle McNulty.

“Earth to Jeb,” said Pappy.

“Ditto that,” said Marsh.

But Jeb was gone, lost in Michelle McNulty’s open arms.

Peru

A WORLD AWAY, Angus Lyons gathered the strands of his shoulder-length silver hair into a ponytail, then he lifted the receiver of a field phone and stared through the open canvas flaps of his tent door, wondering who was bothering to call him in the rain forest. “Yeah?”

“Where are you? Sounds like you’re a hundred feet under water that’s been electrified with static.”

“That’s about right,” Angus admitted, fingering his thick silver beard and wondering if he should trim it, in deference to the heat. Gazing into a spray of morning mist, he took in vaulting curtains of green leaves and mammoth trunks of trees untouched by civilization. And never would be, if Angus had his way. As he considered the losing battle to preserve places such as this, Angus wished he was younger. At sixty, his time wasn’t exactly running out, but he didn’t have his whole life in front of him, either, and there was no one to carry on his mission. Since his wife Linda’s death two years ago, he’d felt like a buoy cut loose on the open sea.

“Aren’t you even going to ask who this is?”

Angus laughed. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Jack Hayes. News director at WCBK TV in Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh?” He didn’t know anyone in—

“We went to school—”

Now it came to him. “Harvard, class of sixty-five. Hell, I haven’t seen you since the last reunion, Jack. What can I do for you?”

“Well…I’ve got an employee named Ariel Anderson, who’s from Bliss, West Virginia. She’s keen to do a human-interest story about her hometown, and we gave her the go-ahead. But in the pitch, she mentioned your name, and the possibility of including information about your involvement with—”

“The Core Coal Company buyout in the late seventies,” Angus muttered. “Attempted buyout,” he corrected.

“I was surprised,” Jack continued. “I always think of you as involved in nonprofit. And…well, aren’t you out there saving the rain forests, or some such?”

“Trying,” said Angus noncommittally, even though right now, his business associations, nonprofit or otherwise, were the furthest thing from his mind. He was remembering a long-ago summer and a pretty, young, small-town girl with strawberry hair, a great body and a smile to die for. Even now, he could still see her swimming in springwater so clear and deep that he’d felt he was looking into the core of the earth whenever he’d stared into the depths. Suddenly, with a stab of guilt, Angus thought of his deceased wife, Linda.

“I thought I’d better call,” Jack continued. “I told Ariel to keep the town’s business history out of the story since the piece isn’t supposed to be a coal-industry exposé….”

“You wanted to see if dredging up past history would cause me any trouble,” Angus guessed. Before Jack could answer, he continued, “I appreciate it. And yeah, I’d prefer to keep my name out of any story about Core Coal and Bliss. I did have some involvement down there.” And now, when he thought of the place, his heart ached. It was the only place he’d ever seen that was as lush and green with vegetation as the rain forests he’d come to tend and love. “You say the woman’s name is Ariel Anderson?”

“Uh…yeah. Why?”

“No reason. Just curious.”

“I don’t know much about her,” Jack offered, “except that she came from Bliss and wound up at the University of Pittsburgh. After grad school, she came onboard at WCBK, and she’s been here three years. So, she’s still young. Thirty, tops. A tough cookie. Ambitious. One of those people who’s out to prove herself.”

Angus knew the type. He’d been well into adulthood before he’d realized that the phantoms from which he’d been running had only existed in his own imagination. “And she’s from Bliss?” he said, soliciting a chuckle from Jack.

“A town that’s aptly named, I’d imagine. I don’t know why, but most women I’ve ever met who’ve come from those West Virginia hills are gorgeous, and she’s no exception. Tall and blond, with incredible skin and a smile that stops every man in his tracks.” Jack laughed. “Not that she bothers to use it. A yuppie with a heart of steel, with a Southern twang wrapped in a throaty voice that sounds just like Kathleen Turner’s. I think her boss, a guy by the name of Ryan Vermere, has got a hopeless crush on her.”

“If I ever meet her,” Angus said, “I’ll keep all that in mind.”

“No chance, Angus. This one’s made for glass and concrete. Two-martini lunches. The kind of girl for whom nothing’s ever going to be enough. Definitely, she’s not the type to stop and smell flowers, so I doubt you’d ever bump into her in a rain forest.”

That was exactly why, thought Angus as he hung up the phone and reached for his suitcase, he was heading for Bliss, West Virginia.

Atlanta, Georgia

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

“THIS BETTER BE GOOD,” Rex Houston muttered good-naturedly. Holding out his arms, he let a tech disconnect the air hose attached to the white suit, then Rex went next door where, once more, he held out his arms and let another tech hose him down, then help him strip off the gear.

Butt-naked, he headed for yet another shower, then for a locker room where, without bothering with underwear, he shoved long legs into jeans, and sockless feet into leather Dockers. He was still buttoning a white shirt as he strode down a hallway toward his boss’s office.

Behind him, somebody wolf-whistled. One of the techs called out, “Sexy Rexy.” He was used to the teasing. Tossing a bemused smirk over his shoulder he pushed open a door. He stared at his boss and said, “You called?”

“Come on in. Sit.”

“Nothing like your bedside manner.” Sauntering into the room, as if he’d had nothing better to do today, such as be suited up in the bio-level-four lab, he seated himself in one of the leather roller chairs. Not bad, he thought, his eyes taking in the plush office, for a lady who’d never seen field action. Nope, Jessica Williams—an upper-crust type from South Carolina who’d been born and bred in a navy suit—would never get her lily hands dirty with viruses as deadly as Ebola or hantavirus.

“I have an assignment for you.”

The words were pure bliss, and Rex’s pique evaporated like water under a hot sun. “An assignment?” Already, in his mind’s eye, Rex was packing…traveling to one of the world’s hot-spots, probably some small town in Africa. Already, he could hear the chopper blades beating and the clipped tone of a pilot as he put the bird down while filling in Rex’s team, regarding the number dead, the course of some new unknown disease. “What’s the bug look like? Has anyone identified it?”

Jessica shook her head. “Actually, nothing’s really happened yet. We just got a call from a local.”

Rex’s mind was racing. “Only one call?” That was hardly enough to interest the CDC, much less to get people such as him—known in the field as cowboys—involved in a case.

“Homeland Security,” Jessica reminded.

Since 9-11, anything that vaguely smacked of bioterror needed to be checked out thoroughly. “And you don’t have any information?” That would make the case even more interesting. Rex was part of a team that had traced more than one virus back to its native origins. “My shots are up to date,” Rex assured, “and I’m ready to go. I can be on a plane within the next hour.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Now that he knew an assignment was involved, he was relieved to be getting out of the lab in Atlanta. “Where to?”

“Bliss.”

That stopped him cold. He stared.

“Bliss,” Jessica repeated, now looking as if she were bracing herself for a fight. Not a good sign. “West Virginia. An overnight trip,” she added quickly. “To be honest, we got a hysterical call from an elderly woman named Elsinore Gibbet—”

“Since when does the CDC respond to hysterical calls from elderly women?”

“Careful or I’ll cite you for sexism. She called the World Health Organization and the Department of Homeland Security,” Jessica continued.

He sighed. If anything really happened, Jessica wanted to make sure CDC got dibs. “Let me get this right,” Rex muttered. “Some lady called and—”

“Look, I just want you to go test the water. You’re in, you’re out. Overnight. If you don’t find anything, World Health won’t go down.”

“I’m not a fireman who chases kittens up tree trunks.”

“I need an M.D., not a tech. If you go, the other organizations are covered. Besides, there might be something to the complaint. There have been times when something odd happens in this town. Like unexplainable blackouts.” Pausing, Jessica shoved a file across her desk. “It’s all right here.”

Rex didn’t reach for the case file.

“I’m thinking you might find evidence of the virus we’ve nicknamed Romeo,” she prodded.

“Why me?” Rex groaned. According to office rumors, the virus to which she was referring had only been documented once, in South America, two years back, and then the documentation had mysteriously been lost. Most people assumed the bug had never existed, and that the references to it had been created as a joke. “You’re sending me to look for the love bug,” he said flatly. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“The bug makes people lose inhibitions,” Jessica countered. “And we’ve not yet seen it in the States. It can cause temporary euphoria, a high that’s said to result in increased sexual behavior. Given the patterns of unusual activity in the town, dating back to the 1700s, as well as the local reliance on a spring, as in the South American case—”

“The case is not documented.”

“It was, but the documents were destroyed.”

“I don’t believe in documents that don’t exist.”

“Well then, take some that do,” Jessica said, pushing the file toward him. “We have pictures of the bug, drawn by people who saw it.”

He considered. The last thing he wanted to explore was a love bug, and not just because people all over the world were dying of real diseases that deserved his attention. There was also the matter of Janet Kaston. She’d been a tech at CDC when he’d met her a year ago, and like no other woman he’d ever known. She’d come to the city from a farm in the backwoods of Georgia, and she was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. As nice as pie, too, and the first woman he’d dated whom his mother had actually liked.

Within months, he’d found himself engaged. He’d let himself get roped into hours of conversations about kids and mortgages, too. And his folks, who’d despaired of him ever settling down, couldn’t have been more thrilled. Hell, he’d surprised himself when he’d proposed. And he’d liked sex with Janet. It wasn’t the down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred kind he usually sought out. She’d been all hearts and flowers, and while she’d left him cold, on some physical levels, her seeming lack of experience had conned his heart. Seeming and conned being the operative words.

Just two weeks before the wedding, Rex had found his soon-to-be bride in the kitchen pantry of the country club where their rehearsal dinner was to be held. As much as he’d tried to block it from his mind, he could still see her clearly, down on her knees, delivering more than catering orders to their chef, who’d frosted a hard-on with cake icing from Rex’s own wedding cake.

The betrayal had hurt more than anything. As it turned out, she’d been a wild child with a string of boyfriends back in Georgia, whom she’d never told Rex about. He’d been part of her plan to straighten up her act by landing a doctor husband who could give her a soccer-mom lifestyle.

He’d walked out of the pantry and never looked back. Which was why a trip to an Ebola-ridden desert town would have been welcome. There was nothing like living in a village devastated by disease to keep a man on his toes, and his mind in the present.

Romeo—otherwise known as generis misealius—had never even killed anyone. If it had even really existed.

“It’s an order,” Jessica said.

Bliss, West Virginia, he thought. Without even seeing a map, he knew what the town would look like. Two blocks long and probably in a dry county. With any luck, though, there’d be a Hooters the next town over. Rex sure didn’t need a love drug to tell him he was horny. It had been months since Janet, and while he never intended to engage his emotions again—he could sure use some sex. Against his will, he reached for the folder. “Did you book a hotel?”

“None in the area.”

“Don’t tell me. I’ll be sleeping in a tent, right?”

“A bed-and-breakfast,” she corrected. “The fanciest place up there. It’s called the Teasdale Teahouse.”

So much for Hooters. “A teahouse,” he echoed.

She smiled sweetly. “A car’s outside. It’ll take you by your house and to the airport. Your plane leaves in an hour.” She glanced at her watch. “Forty minutes,” she corrected.

His return smile matched hers for sincerity. They eyed each other a long moment. “Well then, as much as I hate to leave you, Jessica, I guess I’d better go.” With that, he rose, lifted the file, then strode from her office. He’d just crossed the threshold when, from behind him, he heard her wolf whistle.

“Careful,” he tossed over his shoulder, “or I’ll charge you with sexual harassment.”

He could still hear his boss laughing when he hit the stifling August air. “Bliss,” he muttered. And a teahouse, no less. Now, why was he so sure he was headed for the tenth rung of hell?

2

ARIEL SPUN THE DIAL of the Honda Accord’s radio. On the local station, the Beatles were crooning, “Love, love, love…” Was this a joke? The previous song on the local station had been “Moon River”, and the one before, “Every Breath You Take.”

She blew out a sigh, clutched the wheel with both hands and stared anxiously from Bliss Run Road to the spring, which she could glimpse between the trees, then to the distant hill. Her heart constricted. At the top, she could just make out bits of the house where she’d grown up—tips of turrets, flashes of mint-and-lemon trim. Despite the colors visible under the blazing sun, the shape of the place was foreboding.

Her gaze returned to the road. Tied between phone poles, a white banner flew overhead, announcing the Harvest Festival. “Now, that’s odd,” she murmured. The Bliss theater was showing only black-and-white romantic movies this week. Tonight, Casablanca was paired with Bringing Up Baby. Glancing upward, she glimpsed the teahouse again and punched the gas. She was running hours behind schedule, and God only knew what was going on at the proverbial ranch. She’d gotten a call from Great-gran this morning, saying that someone had broken into the root cellar, opened the safe and stolen the book of Matilda Teasdale’s tea recipes. They’d had to call the sheriff, which meant Ariel was going to have to talk to Studs Underwood.

Feeling sure her blood pressure was skyrocketing, Ariel took a deep breath. The last person she wanted to see was Studs. Oh, she’d heard the rumors about all the sexual things she’d done for him. She’d given him tongue baths, made love to another woman in his presence and worn crotchless panties—when she’d bothered to wear any underwear at all. Oh, yeah. And what else? Allegedly she and Studs had been the hottest couple ever to hit Bliss.

That he was now married to Joanie Summers hardly helped matters. Ariel glanced into the rearview mirror. Thankfully, she looked great. The eleven years since she’d left Bliss hadn’t aged her a bit. She could still afford to go light on the makeup accentuating her blue eyes. Her straight, long, wild blond hair was pulled severely back, and turned neatly into a tight French roll, the pins of which were starting to give her a headache, if she was honest about it.

Not that she’d give in to temptation and let down her hair. She’d brought mostly suits, all of them more expensive than she could afford, and the one she wore now—a pale pink silk skirt and jacket, with a white silk blouse beneath—made her look impossibly demure. She couldn’t wait until tonight, since she planned to wear it into Jack’s Diner, and give the town something to buzz about. It was a far cry from the fishnets and miniskirt she’d worn the day she’d left Bliss. She’d been home in the many years since then, of course, but usually, she’d kept out of sight, staying put in the teahouse. When she had ventured onto Bliss Run Road, she’d never sported a total makeover.

This outfit hit the right note, with matching pumps that gave just enough lift to accentuate her calves but not so much that she looked like she was inviting attention. Yes, she thought, her hands tightening around the wheel, her long-awaited plan to restore her good name was definitely going to work. Color flooded her cheeks as she thought of how she’d roared out of town eleven years ago, on the back of her flame-red Harley. No doubt about it, back then she’d been hell on wheels, with the world’s worst reputation to uphold. But once she’d gotten out of Bliss, she’d been able to start finding herself. Not Ariel Anderson, youngest of the four weird, witchy, widowed Andersons.

Now she was about to put Bliss on the map, nationally. And that would make people in town finally respect her. Her heart squeezed tightly. Her family, as well. Her mom, Gran and Great-gran weren’t nearly as strange as the young kids always made out. No stranger than Chicken Giblets, really. But the three women did keep to themselves, wear dark clothes, and keep mum about their mysterious family history, especially Ariel’s mother when it came to answering questions about the identity of Ariel’s father.

Her lips tightened. She couldn’t dwell on that right now. Nor on the fact that she was going to have to talk to Studs, since the recipe book had been stolen. “We’ve got to get it back before the festival,” she muttered. Not only was the book of deep sentimental value, but she’d hoped to include shots of it for the feature spot she was putting together for WCBK. She’d considered mentioning the near buyout of the local land by Core Coal in the seventies, but the news director, Jack Hayes, had pushed the story in a more human-interest direction. Her more immediate boss, Ryan, had agreed.

Just the thought of Ryan made her lips go dry, so she reached for a bottled water and took a sip. He’d been asking her out, and if the story went well, and she got a transfer to another department, and without the taint of her adolescent reputation still hanging over her head…

She’d start to loosen up. Feel more free, sexually. Ryan was everything she wanted. Which meant the opposite of every man she’d ever met in Bliss. Of average build, with sandy-brown hair and brown eyes, he was the type to open doors and pay for his date…inclined to wear suits even when he didn’t need to for an occasion. Still, it was hard to imagine introducing such a normal guy to her family. But she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. She hadn’t even dated him yet, much less slept with him.

Her gaze narrowed, and she did a double take. Something was different about Jack’s Diner. “New curtains,” she decided. From a distance, it looked as if the fabric was printed with hearts. That was very strange, since Jack’s tastes ran to keg parties, hunting up in the mountains with his buddies and decorating with American flags.

His sister, she suddenly thought, solving the mystery. She was a seamstress. Probably, she’d taken it upon herself to spruce the place up. Which would make the town eatery even more photogenic for her piece, Ariel realized.

She wished she’d been able to bring her own cameraman from Pittsburgh. Instead, Jack Hayes and Ryan had arranged for a stringer to come down to Bliss from nearby Charleston. This way, she could spend the week vacationing and refining the text of the spot by considering possible camera shots and interviews. She’d have the man shoot a day’s worth of tape, and when she returned to Pittsburgh, she’d edit it herself.

No matter what happened—whether locals teased her or Studs referenced all that past business—she’d hold her head high. No one in town was going to see so much as a hair out of place. Her story might get picked up nationally, too. That was her biggest hope. She’d taken great care to create just the sort of piece—a small-town festival—with which the networks always ended their evening newscasts.

“What the—” She didn’t finish, but wrenched her head around. “What’s Great-gran doing in town?” She never left the house. Ariel slowed, intending to stop and offer her great grandmother a lift, but she was standing in front of the hardware store, having a heated debate with Eli Saltwell; no one ever talked to Eli, especially not Great-gran. She’d been feuding with him ever since Ariel could remember. As far as Great-gran was concerned, Eli was responsible for everything from rising taxes to bad weather. The source of the conflict had remained a mystery. Her great-gran spit and crossed the street whenever she saw Eli, and on the rare occasions she’d gone to town, she’d always refused to enter any local store when Eli had been inside.

She was still considering whether to pull over when Joanie Summers—now Underwood—exited the hardware store, raised a hand and waved. Stunned, Ariel turned toward the windshield again, half expecting to see someone else. Surely, Joanie wasn’t waving at her, not when Ariel and Joanie’s husband, Studs, used to be the talk of Bliss! But no, Joanie really was waving at her, and Great-gran really was deeply immersed in a conversation with Eli. Realizing someone had stepped in front of her car, Ariel gasped once more, then simultaneously pressed the horn and depressed the brakes.

A hand came down hard on the hood. And Ariel, her heart now beating out of control, clamped a hand to her chest. It was Chicken Giblets.

Elsinore Gibbet swiftly circled the car, at least as quickly as an octogenarian in a floral-print housedress and blue-rinsed hair could, so Ariel began powering down the passenger-side window, but it was too late. Already, Giblets had wrenched open the door, lunged inside and slammed the door shut, while saying ominously, “I’m so glad you’re here, Ariel.”

Realizing Jack was behind her in the diner’s truck, Ariel had no choice but to depress the gas pedal again. As she drove, she fought the feeling that her well-planned trip to Bliss had just nosedived and was heading in a southerly direction. Doing another double take, she saw a man she didn’t recognize and who didn’t look like one of the summer visitors. He was deeply tanned, with long silver hair tied back in a ponytail and a silver beard.

Not that she had time for more than a glimpse. “Uh…Miss Gibbet,” she began, since she’d never known what to call people who’d been in positions of authority when she’d been younger, such as teachers or librarians.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, as if reading Ariel’s mind. “You’re old enough to call me Elsinore now. Head on up to your place, and I’ll fill you in on all the details.”

Details? “Fill me in?” Ariel echoed.

“You’re a reporter, right?”

“I’m here working on a story, yes.”

Fighting a sense of foreboding, she turned off Bliss Run Road onto Mountain Drive, a narrow two-lane stretch of incline. She cast a glance into the rearview mirror, still unable to believe her great-gran had been speaking with Eli Saltwell.

“Your great-gran and Eli aren’t the half of it,” assured Elsinore, as if reading her mind once more. “The Bliss theater is only showing romance movies, you can only get romance songs on the local radio, and Jack’s introduced an early-bird breakfast special for two. But don’t worry. I called the CDC.”

“The CDC?”

“The Centers for Disease Control. In Atlanta.”

“I know what the CDC is,” Ariel managed to say.

“Then why did you ask?” returned Elsinore, looking miffed.

Ariel gaped at the librarian. It was bad enough that the recipe book, Ariel’s relatives’ pride and joy, not to mention a feature element in Ariel’s news story, had been stolen, but…“Why did you call the CDC?”

“Well, you know the stories about the spring….” Elsinore began.

Ariel had no idea where this was heading. “Uh huh.”

“Well, it’s rumored that Pappy Pass and his ex-wife, Maime, are getting back together. Then, there’s the fact that Eli and your great-gran are talking. Ever since Matilda—” Elsinore paused. “Nothing against your family, Ariel,” she began again, “but ever since she came, there’s been nothing but trouble. First, the town went dead in 1790, then in 1806.”

Ariel’s heart was sinking as her childhood home came into view. What if the town really had…well, shut down in the past? “Those are just town legends, Elsinore,” she said uncertainly.

“There’s proof in the history books, and you know it.”

“Local history books, mostly,” Ariel pointed out. “And those are full of fanciful folktales.”

Elsinore pursed her lips primly and Ariel looked at the cars in the lot. Seeing her mother’s old black Cadillac, and Gran’s silver Eldorado, Ariel wondered how her great-gran had gotten to town. The rest of the cars—about ten—belonged to guests. There was one huge black RV that looked more like a military vehicle. Figuring she’d unload the Honda after she said hello, she pulled in front of the wraparound porch. “Let’s go inside. I’ll bet Mom’s got some iced tea made,” she said cordially, as she moved to get out of the car. “Don’t worry, Elsinore, we’ll get to the bottom of all this.”

“I’ve already gotten to the bottom of it,” Elsinore said, “and your family is responsible. It was Matilda who brought this on us, and now, it’s all happening again. I predict that, within a week, all industry in Bliss will shut down.”

“Uh-huh,” Ariel couldn’t help but say dryly. “And that would be…what? Jack’s Diner? Oh, right,” she added. “I forgot. The ice-cream truck.”

“And the canoe-and-bike rental stand,” Elsinore put in.

Taking a deep breath, Ariel shut her car door, wincing at the stifling heat, then she went up the porch stairs, with Elsinore on her heels. As she pushed through a door, foyer, and into the living room, she inhaled audibly. What was going on here? A shoulder duffel was near the door, as if no one had bothered to check in a guest. Next to it was a six-pack of bottled water and a thick manila file. Slowly, her eyes followed a trail of black clothes—shoes, stockings…

Feeling off balance, she quickly swiped them from the Chinese rug, terrified a guest might see them. It looked as if one of her relatives had started disrobing in the public rooms, while going toward the back of the house. Ariel scanned the terrain and saw another hint of black through some French doors.

“A slip,” she whispered, lifting it from the doorknob. Outside, the air was truly unbearable, making her miss the air-conditioning in the car. Through a thicket of trees, she could hear splashing in the pool to her left. It sounded as if most of the guests were swimming, but she had a suspicion that…

Her pulse ticked fast in her throat as her eyes trailed down the flight of steps carved into the mountain, to where a black dress flew on a pole near the dock, waving like a flag. Ariel shut her eyes. Counted to ten. Opened them again—only to find this was not her overactive imagination. Her mother was swimming in the spring, and judging by the trail of clothes, she was only wearing a bra and panties. As she heard Elsinore gasp, Ariel realized that there were no scents of dinner in the house, even though it was nearly two o’clock. Her relatives did the cooking, and often, because of the Southern fare they served, beans or stewed tomatoes would be on the stove by now.

All the fantastical stories she’d heard in her youth suddenly came racing back. Swiftly, she whirled, feeling panicked, thinking she’d better return to the porch.

She gasped. She’d run right into something hard and as dripping wet as the spring. Just as she glanced up, big sexy-feeling hands closed around the sleeves of her pale pink jacket; seemingly, the move was meant to steady her; instead, her hips locked with a male stranger’s, and her cheek hit a pectoral smelling of chlorinated water. Something else, too. Something more intriguing, less definable. Even though he felt cold from the water, he was hot, too. Yes, he was pure burning fire, sizzling out of control and searing every inch of her. Unbidden, her hands reached, landing naturally on his waist, and she could feel the skin alive beneath her fingertips.

The second her fingers touched his wet skin, the whole world seemed to slide off-kilter. She could almost believe she, herself, had just drunk a gallon of Matilda’s love tea made with springwater. Or as if she, herself, had just plunged into the spring during one of those freaky end-of-summer nights when the water was reputed to be most pungent.

Knowing she was losing her mind, she made herself step back and stared at her soaked suit. As she slipped swiftly out of the jacket and shook off the water, she looked up. “Oh, no,” she murmured, her dismayed tone coming more in response to the man’s good looks than anything else.

His gaze had landed on her chest, too, and while she’d thought the aversion of his eyes was due to embarrassment at their collision, she now realized her silk blouse had gotten as wet as the jacket. Silently, she cursed herself for removing her jacket, since despite the summery air, her nipples had been affected by the icy water and constricted. Heat vying with the August humidity flushed her cheeks.

His gaze didn’t hold an ounce of apology, either. In fact, his eyes looked hot and predatory. Feeling strangely faint, but not about to let him unbalance her, she stared right back. Surely, her weakening knees had less to do with him than the fact that the temperature had to be hovering near ninety.

She realized he was blond. It was hard to tell what kind of blond—light or medium, since his hair was wet. Nor could she tell how long it was, since dry, she imagined it might have some wave to it. But it was hard to tell. Either way, it was slicked back and tucked behind his ears. His red swimsuit was tight and wet, and his strong chest was tanned the color of chestnuts.

She sighed deeply, willing away unwanted sensations. Fate couldn’t be this unkind to her. Two hours ago, she’d been on top of the world, ready to put Bliss on the map by covering the Harvest Festival. Now, the recipe book had been stolen, and Elsinore was convinced Bliss had gone…well, buggy for the first time in sixty years. Even worse, Ariel had now run right into a man who’d threaten any decent woman’s reputation, not to mention her sanity.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Recognizing he must be a guest, she forced a smile. She’d been trained from childhood that the customer was always right. Besides, if he was staying at the teahouse, she’d be dealing with him at every meal. “Uh,” she managed to say. “Me, too. I’m Ariel Anderson.

“Anderson,” he repeated, recognition entering his voice. “I couldn’t find anyone, so I left my duffel by the door, put on a suit and came out to cool off.”

Not much of a suit, she thought. From the drawl, she could tell he was a big-city guy, not from one of the nearby West Virginia towns, such as Charleston or Huntington. It hit her that she’d lost all track of time from the moment their bodies had connected. Only now did the sounds from guests playing in the pool drift back into her consciousness—laughter, the bat of a ball, the pounding of the diving board. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “No one helped you?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been here for an hour.”

“I’ll be glad to check you in,” she said, even though she ranked the task right up there with talking to Studs about the stolen recipe book. She added, “That is, if you’re ready to get dressed.”

His eyes blazed into hers. They were the bluest she’d ever seen. Arresting. Captivating. She realized the double entendre in what she’d said, and quickly added, “I mean, if you’re finished swimming.” That was a better way of putting it, wasn’t it?

“Of course,” he murmured.

She couldn’t help but wonder what he did for a living. It would be something that required intelligence. He had the sharply assessing gaze of a brainiac. His eyes dipped again, settling on her damp blouse, and she knew he was taking in her lace bra and nipples. When his eyes found hers again, it felt as if a thousand years had just passed. His voice lowered during that time and now it sounded husky and suggestive. “You might want to change, too.”

She hadn’t felt so completely unbalanced in her life. She’d totally forgotten that Elsinore Gibbet was standing beside her, witnessing the exchange. At least until Elsinore said, worriedly, “I thought it was all happening again. Now I’m sure of it.”

The man thrust out a huge damp hand that, just a moment ago, had been curled around Ariel’s upper arm. Then he said the last thing she expected. “I’m Dr. Rex Houston, CDC.”

3

SHE DIDN’T MOVE A MUSCLE, not even to take his hand. And to be honest, Rex didn’t want her to. The way she was standing, with her back to the sun, he was enjoying how the rays shone through her skirt, illuminating a great pair of legs. Blood surged in his groin, and he could only hope she’d get him checked into his room before he started sporting a full-service erection. Maybe this trip to Bliss was going to work out better than he’d thought.

After all, this had been the longest stretch without sex he’d ever endured in his adult life. Wishing he’d grabbed a towel at poolside—less to dry than cover himself—he tried to train his mind on something other than the woman in front of him.

Not that he could. He just wished she didn’t remind him of Janet. Just like Janet, Ariel Anderson had a small-town, girl-next-door kind of appeal. She was fair, with perfect skin, and eyes as clear, big and blue as the crystal waters of the spring below. Her hair was drawn back, in a way that on another woman would have been called severe, but that didn’t mar her features in the least, but instead enhanced them. She didn’t wear much, or need, makeup. And that fresh-faced look, coupled with a tall, thin, leggy body clad in see-through clothes was doing him in.

As if coming to her senses, she took his hand, making him wonder just how long he’d been standing there with it extended. Minutes? Time seemed to have slowed. As her long, slender fingers traced the back of his hand, he offered a squeeze that sent heat dancing through him.

“Look,” she began as she abruptly headed past him and toward the house, gesturing for him to follow. “I know Elsinore called you, but we really don’t need the CDC….”

He wasn’t sure what annoyed him most—her determination to push things in an all-business direction, or the fact that the nutty old bat who’d phoned the CDC was still on their heels, which meant he wasn’t alone with Ariel.

Just looking at her, he felt all tangled up inside. Maybe he even wanted her because she was so much like Janet. As much as he hadn’t wanted to take it personally, seeing his fiancée with the chef had been a blow to his ego. As Ariel breezed through a French door, he caught the edge and held it open for her and Elsinore.

“Thanks,” both said over their shoulders.

“No problem.” It was only Ariel’s voice he’d really heard. She had a remarkable voice. Low and throaty, it was the sort that a man expected to find in bars, back alleyways and cathouses…in forbidden corners that catered to the midnight side. It sounded like she’d smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too much booze, although Rex was sure she’d never touched either.

They’d reached the staircase when an elderly woman appeared, wearing an apron over a black dress. She was short, probably just five feet, if that, and about seventy years of age. Apparently, three women lived here—he’d gleaned that much from guests at the pool—Ariel’s mother, her grandmother and her great grandmother. Thankfully, at least one of them cooked. The house had filled with the aroma of food.

“Ariel!” the elderly woman was saying as she rushed forward, spatula in hand, and encased her in a quick, tight hug. “We’ve been waiting for your arrival for hours.”

“Hi, Gran.” Ariel kissed her cheek, then glanced toward the French doors again. “Uh…what’s going on?” she continued, stepping back. “I thought I saw Mom, swimming down in the spring, and Great-gran was in town. Since both your cars are here, I couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten there—”

“It’s a long story,” her grandmother said. “Everything went haywire today! We went to talk to Sheriff Underwood about Matilda’s book. I guess you know him by the name of Studs, since you’re the same age. And you know how we hate to go to town.”

Ariel’s mind strained to keep pace with her grandmother’s monologue. With a nearly naked man beside her, especially one who’d felt so good pressed against her, it was difficult. “Are there any leads?”

“The sheriff found a red bandanna near the safe, and there were dog prints outside. I think he was going to question Pappy Pass, today, since his dog, Hammerhead, usually has a red bandanna tied around his neck.”

“Pappy would never—”

“I think his grandson, Jeb, might be the culprit. Youngsters may have wanted to take the book for a lark. You know how they do. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. We’re all beside ourselves with worry, as I’m sure you are, too. It’s one of our dearest possessions and two centuries old.”

“Surely whoever took it knows it’s valuable.”

“I hope. If anything happens to that book, it will be so upsetting. We’ve just got to find it before the Harvest Festival, otherwise we’ll have to make all our tea blends by memory, and…” Her voice trailed off and she laughed, her eyes twinkling as she patted her granddaughter’s cheek lovingly. “As old as we’re getting, I hate to think what might happen if we made up love blends from memory, then tried to sell them.”

“Lord have mercy,” whispered Elsinore, speaking for the first time. “If your potions got jumbled, that really would be terrible, wouldn’t it? All the wrong people would be falling in love, and so forth.”

“Why, Elsinore, I didn’t see you,” said Ariel’s grandmother. “Come into the kitchen with me. Let me pour you some sun tea. I made it during the day with fresh springwater. It’ll cool you off while Ariel takes this gentleman upstairs to get him settled. As soon as Ariel’s mother comes in from her dip, she can run you back down the mountain and pick up Great-gran.” Gran nodded toward the staircase. “That’s your duffel?”

Rex nodded.

She inclined her chin. “Everybody calls me Gran,” she said. “So, you can, too. All the women in the house used to use proper names, but the guests can’t remember. So we just have them call us Mom, Gran and Great-gran. It lends a homey feel, and nobody has to struggle too hard to remember things such as Samantha, Sylvia and Christina.” She chuckled. “Now, the locals know our first names,” she added. “And before anyone tells you otherwise, you should also know that some of the young kids in town believe we’re witches.”

“You certainly look like one,” he agreed.

She smiled, delighted. “Whatever the case, it’s good for business.”

“You might want to throw in a ghost.”

“I’ll consider it,” she assured. “Now, you two skedaddle. Even as it is, dinner’s going to be late. And before you ask, I don’t want help in the kitchen, Ariel. Your job is to entertain the new guest until dinner.” The elderly woman flashed him a wide smile. “Ariel will take care of your every need. I can assure you of that, sir.”

Trying not to take the words as a double entendre, Rex felt glad the sun had dried him well enough that he wasn’t dripping on the woman’s floor. “Sorry I’m not dressed,” he apologized, glancing around at the stately living room, with its hardwood floors, Chinese rugs, marble-top tables and chandelier. “But when I couldn’t check in…”

“You won’t be punished this time,” Gran assured with mock severity. “But next time, we’ll bring out nails and chains. Thumbscrews.”

“I thought that was for the people who tortured the witches.”

“Exactly. As a witch, you pick these things up.”

“Don’t feed the rumors,” Ariel said, the teasing seemingly bothering her.

Heeding the words, her grandmother continued, “Usually, you’re to change in the deck house, but Ariel will explain all house rules.” She glanced at Ariel. “He’s in the Overlook room.”

Looking startled, Ariel parted her lips in protest.

“It’s the only room available.”

Lifting his bag, he shouldered it, then picked up the rest of his belongings. He was still wondering what exactly was wrong with his accommodations as he preceded Ariel upstairs. He couldn’t help but wonder if the view of his tush affected her, too, since it clearly did the women with whom he worked. As they entered a long upstairs hallway, Ariel pointed left, and when he reached the end of the hallway, he understood her objection. The Overlook room was right next door to one with a sign affixed to the door that read Welcome Home Ariel.

“We’re neighbors,” he said as she showed him into his quarters. He could swear he saw her throat working as he took in the door between their rooms. There was a lock on his side and probably one on hers as well….

He pulled his mind to business. The room was great. He would have chosen it for a personal vacation. To be honest, he hated small towns, unless they were riddled with some contagious disease. Otherwise, he got bored in under ten minutes flat. Living someplace like Bliss was akin to slow death by torture, as far as he was concerned, but when Jessica had said this was the fanciest place in town, she hadn’t been lying.

“Nice,” he said.

She seemed to soften. “Glad you like it.”

She did, too. He could hear her love for the place in that maddeningly throaty voice. He took in the bed—a king-size, masculine affair covered with a nautically inspired duvet—facing a picture window overlooking the steep, lush-green incline to the spring. Everything reflected the sailing motif—from a shadow box illustrating boating knots, to ships-in-bottles that the women had placed on tables.

He strode to the bathroom and glanced in, feeling his heart skip a beat. The room was spacious, and mirrored, with a sunken tub of navy porcelain; the dark cabinetry, with its brass knocker-style pulls, made the place look like a captain’s quarters. With the tub full of white suds, a man would feel he was bathing in the waves of the ocean.

Her folks might be rumored to be witches, or just crazy old widows who’d killed their husbands, but they knew how to make a man feel like a man. “Spacious,” he commented, deciding not to mention the mirrors as he moved into the room again, and toward the picture window, to stare down at the spring. “Wow.”

“It’s my favorite view,” she said, coming to stand next to him. “Mine’s the same.”

Definitely, he liked the fact that she was next door.

He realized her eyes were full of questions, and he raised his eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“What exactly is the CDC doing here? I mean, I know there are stories about how Bliss is said to have had…well, strange spots of time where business seems to shut down. Such tall tales add…”

“Spice to the town?”

“Exactly. The summer people love it.”

“The source might be a bug called Romeo. Also called generis misealius,” he said. And then he plunged into an account of the history of the virus. He was more pleased than he should have been when she didn’t glaze as he spoke about the difficulties of tracing viruses.

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.” He continued, his voice quickening with excitement as he spoke about the possibility of solving the town’s long-standing mystery. At least until he mentioned the World Health Organization.

“They can’t come here!” she said, dismayed. “This is ridiculous. Really Dr. Houston—”

“Rex,” he corrected.

“This is all local myth. It really is.”

“A possibility,” he agreed, moving nearer to where she stood by the window. “You’re related to Matilda Teasdale, right?”

She lifted her gaze from the spring, her crystal eyes looking wary and startled once more. “You know about that?”

He glanced toward the file on the bed. “Your dossier.”

Now she looked mortified. “My…”

He frowned. Suddenly, she became even more interesting, if that was possible. “What could a woman like you have to hide?”

She shot him a long look. “A woman like me?”

He fought the urge to touch her—and lost. He knew better because just one touch would be enough to electrify his whole body and there would be no point to it, except to leave him craving more. Lifting a finger anyway, he glanced it off her cheek. “Proper.”

That seemed to please her. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” He knew his eyes were disrobing her.

Her expression shuttered. “You don’t even know me.”

He wanted to, at least for tonight, and he felt the urge, like a call to something wild and undeniable. “You could let me get to know you.”

Her eyes darted away. “I don’t think we’ll have time for that.”

“Really?” he returned mildly.

She wanted to back away—he was sure of it; he could feel it in his bones—yet she didn’t. “The dossier doesn’t say much about you, specifically,” he found himself admitting. Surprised at the huskiness of his own voice, he went on, “But it does talk about the history of the house. Everyone seems to think Matilda and the women who’ve inhabited the place since are witches.” His eyes locked into hers. “Are you?”

“You’re a doctor. A scientist. You should know better.”

“So, you think my framework of knowledge is limited to microbes and cells?”

Her lips suddenly twitched, as if the banter was threatening to make her smile against her will. “That was my hope.”

It was a risk, but he inched closer, near enough to catch a whiff of her perfume. “The way you seem to affect me, you’re testing my deepest convictions.”

“A man should always keep his convictions.”

He kept his voice steady and bemused, even though she was doing wild things to his blood. “Why?”

“It shows character.”

Chuckling, he shrugged. “An overrated virtue.”

The scent of her perfume was soft, faint and floral, but he could smell something else beneath it that stirred him. He could sense so much in this woman. Old wounds that ran deep. A river of pain, maybe. But he wanted to ask her a thousand questions, starting with how it felt to grow up in a place that was apparently considered to be the local haunted house.

Taking a deep breath, she blew out an audible sigh. “To be honest,” she murmured. “I don’t want the CDC here.” She frowned. “Really, it’s nothing personal.”

“It’s always personal.”

“I don’t know if it was in your…uh, dossier.”

“It’s not a dossier. Just so you know, the CDC doesn’t really keep files on citizens. It’s America, and we do have civil rights, you know.”

“I work for a Pittsburgh TV station,” she began. “And next week, during the Harvest Festival, a cameraman’s coming from Charleston, to help me tape a feature spot. It’s a big chance for me. I don’t want anything blowing it. I definitely don’t want the World Health Organization coming into town during the shoot, much less the military.”

He was impressed. “The plot thickens.”

“Meaning?”

“I thought you were home for a family vacation.”

“That, too.”

But she had ambition.

“And in addition to keeping you off my turf,” she continued, “I need to find a missing recipe book. It’s old, treasured by my family. It contains all Matilda’s recipes, was written by her own hand. People have tried to steal it for years, as my grandmother suggested downstairs, but now, someone’s broken into the safe, and taken it.” She paused. “So you see,” she finished, “I don’t have time for flirtation.”

His heart missed another beat. “Flirtation wasn’t really what I had in mind.”

“No?”

He slowly shook his head. Primal heat flared inside him. Barely able to believe he was doing it—he was usually a little more suave—he glanced pointedly toward the bed. “Flirtation,” he murmured, raising a finger to touch her cheek once more. “It does seem like a waste of time.”

She blinked, as if she couldn’t quite believe the conversation they were having, then answering desire sparked in her eyes and she said the very last thing he expected. “Then let’s not waste any more of it.”

Scarcely believing his ears, Rex leaned across the scant remaining foot between them, circled an arm around her waist and drew her against himself, almost gasping as they made contact. She had a strong body. Probably, she worked out, and the muscles and bones felt equally hard, and yet she yielded to him, too, with a female softness. He arched to her, and as his mouth covered hers, she lifted her hands to his shoulders.

His tongue pushed apart her lips, and belatedly, he realized his kiss was too hard, too demanding. He didn’t even know her. They’d met only moments before. Maybe Romeo was in the water, after all. Maybe he’d become infected as he’d splashed in the chlorinated pool. Why had he gone swimming? Usually, he was much more rigorous at a possibly infected site. But it had seemed so hot, and the proprietors hadn’t been around, and…

Jessica would kill him if she knew.

But right now, he didn’t even care. His hands tightened around Ariel’s back, urging her closer, as her tongue moved against his, feeling silken, hot and delicious. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, then he felt them on his bare back, moving toward the elastic band of his trunks.

He wanted to remove her jacket again. And as he imagined using his teeth to unbutton the flimsy silk blouse, and his tongue to lick inside the lace of the bra, blood engorged him.

When she broke the kiss, he was half-glad. At least one of them had come to their senses. Except that, honestly, he wanted to spiral back downward into the whirlpool of the kiss and spend all night drowning in it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathlessly. “I don’t know what…came over me.”

If he reached for her, she’d let him kiss her again, right now. He knew it and she knew it. Even as she took another self-protective step backward, she was licking her lips, tasting his moisture.

“I do,” he managed to say huskily, slowly shaking his head, barely able to believe the kinetic heat that had ignited between them. “We want each other.”

Her skin was flushed, her breath short. “Like I said,” she continued, her voice holding a quiver that indicated she was just as shaken as him. “I’m worried about my project. And you’re only here overnight. Before dinner, you can take your samples of the water.” She pointed through the window. “Those steps take you right down to the spring.”

“I have to take them from other locations as well,” he found himself saying, the words seeming strangely inane in his mouth. Why were they talking at all? The way she’d felt in his arms, and tasted on his lips, they should have wound up in that huge bed making love.

Tonight, she’d come to him. He knew it like his own name. And right now, if someone told him he’d become clairvoyant, he’d have believed it. He could see her in his fantasies, naked and sudsed in the bathtub…how he’d slowly dry each inch of her before pulling down the duvet and laying her on sheets.

Her voice still held that crazy-making quiver. “You’ve got a few hours until dinner.”

With that, she turned to go. He could only watch in disbelief—and need. Every swish of her hips felt like sheer torture. His hands ached to mold the curves of her hips. Instead, he said, “I’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes. Think you can be ready?”

At the threshold, she turned. Everything in her gaze said she felt they’d better stay as far apart as possible. “Ready?”

Determined to ignore the fact that he was standing there, barefoot with a hard-on, in nothing but wet trunks, he said, “In case the World Health Organization really does wind up involved in this. It might affect your story.”

Looking torn, she considered the truth of it. “Okay,” she finally said. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs. We’ll take my car. It’s the silver Honda Accord.”

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