Lovely, she mused, then closed her eyes and tried to go back and remember what he’d said to her. She could remember very well the way he’d kissed her. Gently, then with heat and hunger. But what had he said? Something about choices and knowledge and responsibilities.

If she could put it in order she might be able to give him an idea for a story line for another game. But all that was really clear was the way his hands had moved over her—and the needs that had pumped inside her.

They were working together now, she reminded herself. Thinking of him the way she did was both inappropriate and foolish. The last thing she wanted to do was delude herself into thinking he could fall in love with her—the way she was very much aware she could fall in love with him.

So she’d think of the work instead, of the pleasure it gave her. She’d think of the house she meant to buy. It was time to do something about that. But for now, she’d get up, make her coffee, take her morning walk.

She tossed the sheets aside. And there on the bed beside her was a spray of moonflowers.

Her heart took a hard leap into her throat and snapped it shut. Her breath clogged behind it, hot and thick. Impossible, impossible, her mind insisted. But even when she squeezed her eyes tight, she could smell the delicate fragrance.

She must have picked them and forgotten. But she knew there were no such flowers around her cottage or in the woods. Flowers such as she now remembered seeing in her dream, spread like white wishes between the spears of candles.

But it couldn’t be. It had been a dream, just another of the dreams that had visited her sleep since she’d come to this place. She hadn’t walked through the forest in the night, through the mists. She hadn’t gone to that clearing, to Liam, or stepped into the stone dance.

Unless …

Sleepwalking, she thought with a quick lick of panic. Had she been sleepwalking? She scrambled out of bed, her gaze glued to the flowers as she grabbed her robe.

And the hem was damp, as if she’d walked through dew.

She clutched the robe against her, as details of the dream raced much too clearly through her mind.

“It can’t be real.” But the words echoed hollowly. With a sudden flurry of motion, she began to dress.

She ran all the way, not questioning when temper raced with her fear. He’d caused it; that was all she knew. Maybe there was something in that tea he brewed every day. A hallucinogen of some kind.

It was the only rational explanation. There had to be a rational explanation.