The hulking docks were eerie at night, their towering, ribbed-steel skeletons reminding her of a dystopian vision of ruined skyscrapers in a once great city. A freighter loading ore from the nearby mines was berthed at one of the docks, the glare of giant floodlights making the scene even ghostlier.

Ahead of them, on top of a bluff, the thin beam from a lighthouse pointed a sweeping finger into the harbor. Coop followed the gravel road right up to the gate of the red brick building. With its narrow windows and chalk-white trim, it would have looked like an old-time schoolhouse if it weren’t for the square light tower rising above one corner.

“We’re staying here?”

“Some friends told me about it. This is the oldest continuously running lighthouse on Lake Superior. The historical society turned it into a B and B a while back.”

She reached for the door handle. “As long as it has two bedrooms, I’m fine with it.”

“Hold it!” He hit the door lock, trapping her in the car and looking pissed for no reason at all. “You don’t seriously imagine I’ll try to get you into bed?”

His reaction took her by surprise. She came up with an exasperated sigh. “I wouldn’t think so, but there was that odious kiss the other night, and since I seem to be a guy magnet for the most unlikely men, what do I know?”

“You’re not a guy magnet.”

“Really? Then what was that kiss about?”

“It was about saving your stupid life.” He pointed one long, sturdy finger at her. “Let’s get something straight, Sherlock. I have no sexual interest in you. None. Zip. Zero. The only reason I kissed you was as a distraction from what I really wanted to do, which was strangle you. Now this conversation is over.”

He unlocked the doors and ejected from the car.

What is with him? She obviously needed sleep because she was a tiny bit peeved about his dismissal of her sex appeal, a jab that wouldn’t have bothered her if it had come from anyone else. More than a tiny bit. She was peeved enough to want to challenge him, but a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Marilyn had appeared at the door. “Mr.Smith? Welcome.”

Mr.Smith? That was the best he could come up with?

He’d flipped the trunk and pulled out a small duffel. Piper retrieved her backpack and followed him into an old-fashioned kitchen with a rag rug to wipe feet, a porcelain sink, and an antique gas stove. White lace curtains draped the bottom halves of the narrow windows, and a coffee mill perched on one of the sills. Beneath it, an American flag folded into a triangle rested on top of a wooden hope chest.