She hadn’t expected anything so, well, normal in Hunter Brown’s home. The living room was airy, sunny in the afternoon light. Cheerful. Yes, Lee realized, that was precisely the word that came to mind. No shadowy corners or locked doors. There were wildflowers in an enameled vase and plump pillows on the sofa.

“Were you expecting witches’ brooms and a satin-lined coffin?” he murmured in her ear.

Annoyed, she stepped away from him. “Of course not. I suppose I didn’t expect you to have something quite so … domesticated.”

He arched a brow at the word. “I am domesticated.”

Lee looked at him, at the face that was half rugged, half aristocratic. On one level, perhaps, she mused. But only on one.

“I guess Aunt Bonnie’s got the mess in the kitchen pretty well cleaned up.” Sarah kept one arm around her father as she gave Lee another thorough going-over. “She’d like to meet you because Dad doesn’t see nearly enough women and never talks to reporters. So maybe you’re special because he decided to talk to you.”

While she spoke, she watched Lee steadily. She was only ten, but already she’d sensed there was something between her father and this woman with the dark blue eyes and nifty hair. What she didn’t know was exactly how she felt about it yet. In the manner of her father, Sarah decided to wait and see.

Equally unsure of her own feelings, Lee went with them into the kitchen. She had an impression of sunny walls, white trim and confusion.

“Hunter, if you’re going to keep a wolf in the house, you should at least teach him to appreciate art. Hi, I’m Bonnie.”

Lee saw a tall, thin woman with dark brown shoulder-length hair streaked liberally with blond. She wore a purple T-shirt with faded pink printing over cutoffs as ragged as her niece’s. Her bare feet were tipped at the toes with hot-pink polish. Studying her thin model’s face, Lee couldn’t be sure if she was years older than Hunter or years younger. Automatically she held out her hand in response to Bonnie’s outstretched one.

“How do you do?”

“I’d be doing a lot better if Santanas hadn’t tried to make a snack of my latest creation.” She held up a golden-brown half circle with ragged ends. “Just lucky for him it was a dreadful idea. Anyway, sit.” She gestured to a table piled with bowls and canisters and dusted with flour. “I’m making tea.”

“You didn’t turn the kettle on,” Sarah pointed out, and did so herself.

“Hunter, the child’s always picking on details. I worry about her.”

With a shrug of acceptance, he picked up what looked like a small doughnut and might, with imagination, have been an earring. “You’re finding gold and silver too traditional to work with these days?”