He ran toward her, seeing her head lift as he called her again. Then he had her in his arms, holding tight, closing his eyes and just feeling her, warm and whole and safe. He was too overcome with emotions that had no precedent to notice that she stood stiff and unyielding against him.

He buried his face in the soft luxury of her hair. “Maggie, where’ve you been?”

This was the man she’d thought she was beginning to understand. This was the man she was beginning to love. Maggie stared straight ahead over his shoulder to the house beyond. “I went for a walk.”

“Alone?” he demanded irrationally, drawing her back. “You went out alone?”

Everything turned cold; her skin, her manner, her eyes. “It’s my land, Cliff. Why shouldn’t I go out alone?”

He caught himself before he could rage that she should’ve left him a note. What was happening to him? “There was blood in the sink upstairs.”

“I cut my finger on a tile.”

He found he wanted to rage at her for that. She had no business hurting herself. “You’re usually playing this time of day,” he managed.

“I’m not locked into a routine any more than I’m locked into the house. If you want a placid little female who’s waiting to fall at your feet every night when you come home, you’d better look somewhere else.” Leaving him staring, she broke away and went into the house.

Calmer but more confused, Cliff went into the kitchen to see her pouring a drink. Scotch, he noted, another first. With his mind a bit clearer, he could see that the normal color was absent from her cheeks and that her shoulders were stiff with tension. This time he didn’t go to her or touch her.

“What’s happened?”

Maggie swirled the scotch once before she swallowed.

She found it too warm, too strong, but she sipped again. “I don’t know what you mean.” The kitchen was too small. Maggie took the glass and went out. The air was warm and soft. Outside there were no walls or ceilings to make her feel closed in. Circling around, she sat down on the spread of new grass. She’d sit here in the summer, Maggie thought, and read—Byron, if that was her mood. She’d let the sun fall over her, the silence cloak her, and read until she slept. Maggie continued to look out over the woods when Cliff’s shadow slanted over her.

“Maggie, what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m having a mood,” she said flatly. “You’d expect spoiled celebrities to have moods, wouldn’t you?”

Keeping his temper in check, Cliff sat down beside her, then took her chin in his hand. He waited until their eyes had met and held. “What?”