“You don’t think much of my wherewithal.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Okay.” She pulled her hand away, rose. She faced crises better on her feet. “There’s something else I can tell you, and I don’t expect you to understand or accept it.”

“You’re a kleptomaniac.”

“No.”

“An agent for a clandestine splinter group.”

She managed to laugh. “No. Zack—”

“Wait, I get one more. You’re one of those Star Trek addicts who can recite all the dialogue in every episode.”

“No, only in the first season of the original.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. Okay, I give up.”

“I’m a witch.”

“Oh, well, I know that.”

“I’m not using that as a euphemism for temperament,” she said impatiently. “I mean it literally. Spells and charms and that sort of thing. A witch.”

“Yeah, I got that the night you were dancing naked on your front lawn and glowing like a candle. Nell, I’ve lived on Three Sisters all my life. Do you expect me to be stupefied, or to do that crossed-fingers thing to ward off evil?”

Unsure if she was relieved or disappointed by his reaction, she frowned at him. “I guess I expected you to be something.”

“It gave me a moment,” he admitted. “But then, living with Rip sort of tones down the jolt. Of course she hasn’t had anything to do with that kind of thing for years now. If you were to tell me you’d put some sort of love spell on me, I might be a little irked.”

“Of course I didn’t. I wouldn’t even know how. I’m just . . . learning.”

“An apprentice witch, then.” Amused at both of them, he got to his feet. “I imagine Mia’ll whip you into shape before long.”

Did nothing surprise the man? “A couple of nights ago, I drew down the moon.”

“What the hell does that mean? No, never mind, I don’t have much of a head for the metaphysical. I’m a simple man, Nell.” He ran his hands up and down her arms in the way he had that managed to arouse and soothe at the same time.

“No, you’re not.”

“Simple enough to know I’m standing here with a pretty woman and wasting the moonlight.” He lowered his mouth to hers, drew her up and into a sumptuous kiss.

When her head fell back in surrender, and her arms wound around his neck, he circled her toward the glass door.

“I want to take you to bed. My bed. I want to love you—the Army brat who takes after her mother.” He slid the door open, drew her inside. “I do love you.”

Here, she thought as they lowered to the bed, was truth. And here was compassion. He would give these to her, as much as desire, as much as need. When he touched her, those thrills, those soft and fluid aches, were welcome.