N Dana’s opinion, there were a lot of things you could say about Bradley Charles Vane IV.

He was fun, smart, and great to look at. He could, depending on his mood and the circumstances, present a polished, urbane image that made her think of James Bond ordering a vodka martini in Monte Carlo—and then turn on a dime and become a complete goofball ready to spray seltzer down your pants.

He could discuss French art films with the passion of a man who didn’t require the subtitles, and be just as fervent in a debate over whether Elmer Fudd or Yosemite Sam was a more worthy adversary for Bugs.

Those were just some of the things she loved about Brad.

Another was his house.

Towners called it the Vane House, or the River House, and indeed it had been both for more than four decades.

Brad’s father had built it, a testimony to the lumber that formed the foundation of the Vane empire. Using that lumber, and with a skilled eye for the surroundings, B. C. Vane III had created both the simple and the spectacular.

The golden frame house spread along the riverbank, edging itself with spacious decks and charming terraces. There were a number of rooflines and angles, all of them balanced into a creative harmony that showcased the beauty of wood.

It offered lovely views of the river or the trees or the clever hodgepodge of gardens.

It wasn’t the sort of place you looked at and thought, Money. Rather, you thought, Wow.

She’d spent some time there, tagging along after Flynn when she was a kid and tagging along with Jordan when she was older. It was a place where she’d always felt comfortable. It seemed to her it had been created with comfort as its first priority and style running a close second.

Another thing you could say about Brad, she decided, was that he didn’t skimp on the refreshments when he had a gathering.

It wasn’t anything fancy, at least it wasn’t presented that way. Just some sort of incredible pasta salad that made her contemplate going back for more, a lot of interesting finger food, ham slices, and some dense, dark bread for sandwich making.

There was a round of Brie skirted by fat red raspberries, and crackers nearly thin enough to see through that crunched with satisfying delicacy at every bite.

There was beer, there was wine, there were soft drinks and bottled water.

She already knew she wasn’t going to resist the mini cream puffs mounded in a tempting island on a platter the size of New Jersey.

All this was spread out casually in the great room, where a fire snapped and sizzled and the furniture was the kind you could happily sink into for weeks at a time.

Not fancy, not so you felt like you couldn’t rest your feet on the coffee table. Just classy.

That was Bradley Vane, right down to the ground.

Conversation buzzed and hummed around her, and she was drifting into a happy coma brought on by good food, warmth, and contentment.

Or would, she thought, if Zoe would stop squirming beside her.

“You’re going to have to do something about those ants in your pants,” Dana told her.

“Sorry.” Zoe shot another look toward the archway. “I’m just worried about Simon.”

“Why? He had a plate with enough food piled on it to feed a starving battalion, and he’s hunkered down in the game room. A nine-year-old’s wet dream.”

“There’s so much stuff in this house,” Zoe whispered. “Expensive stuff. Art and glassware and china and things. He’s not used to being around all of this.”

Neither am I, she thought, and struggled not to squirm again.

“What if he breaks something?”

“Well.” Lazily, Dana popped another raspberry into her mouth. “Then I guess Brad’ll beat him to a bloody pulp.”

“He hits children?” Zoe exclaimed.

“No. Jesus, Zoe, get a grip. The place has survived nine-year-old boys before—at least three of them are alive and in this room. Relax. Have a glass of wine. And while you’re at it, get me some more raspberries.”

Half a glass, Zoe thought and got to her feet. But even as she reached for the bottle, Brad lifted it.

“You look a little distracted.” He poured the wine into a glass, handed it to her. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” Damn it, she’d only wanted half a glass. Why didn’t he stay out of her way? “I was just thinking I should check on Simon.”

“He’s fine. He knows where everything is in the game room. But I’ll walk you back if you want to take a look,” Brad added when she frowned.

“No. I’m sure he’s fine. It’s very nice of you to let him play.” She knew her voice was stiff and tight, but she couldn’t help it.

“That, rumor has it, is what a game room’s for.”

Since Brad’s voice echoed her tone, Zoe simply nodded. “Um. Dana, she wanted some more. Of these.” Mortified for no reason she could name, she scooped some of the berries into a bowl, then carried them and her wine back to the couch..

“Pompous ass,” she said under her breath and had Dana blinking at her.

“Brad?” Dana snatched the bowl of raspberries. “Sorry, honey, you got the wrong number.”

Jordan wandered over, sat on the arm of the couch beside Dana and stole a couple of berries before she could stop him.

“Get your own.”

“Yours are better.” He reached out to play with her hair. “So, how’d you get this blond stuff in here?”

“I didn’t. Zoe did.”

Nipping one more berry, he eased forward to look past Dana, wink at Zoe. “Nice job.”

“Any time you need a haircut, it’s on the house.”

“I’ll remember that.” He sat back again. “So, I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’ve brought you here tonight,” he began and made Dana laugh.

“Now there’s a pompous ass.” But she laid a hand on his thigh. “I guess since we’re here to talk about the key, and I’m the one who’s supposed to find it, I’ll start.”

Handing Jordan what was left of the berries, she pushed herself off the couch and snagged her wineglass from the coffee table. Even as she took the first step, Jordan slid down into her seat. He gave her a quick grin and draped his arm behind Zoe over the back of the couch.

“Come here often?” he asked Zoe.

“I would have, if I’d known you’d be here, handsome.”

“You guys are just a riot,” Dana muttered, then eased past a frowning Brad to the wine bottle. What the hell, she wasn’t driving.

“Now, if everybody’s all comfy and cozy?” She paused, sipped her wine. “My key deals-with knowledge, or truth. I’m not sure the words are interchangeable, but both, either, or a combination of them applies to my quest. There’s also a connection to the past, the now, the future. I’m taking this, after some fiddling around and dead-ending, to be personal, as applies to me.”

“I think you’re right about that,” Malory put in. “Rowena stresses that we’re the keys. The three of us. And mine was personal. If we’re going to consider a pattern, that’s part of it.”

“Agreed. The male-type people in this room are part of my past, and of my now. Odds are, I’m probably going to be stuck with them one way or the other, so they’re part of my future as well. We know, too, there are connections among all six of us. My connection to each of you, and yours to me, to each other. There are the paintings from Mal’s part of it that added a link.”

She, as did the others, glanced at the portrait Brad had hung over the mantel. Another of Rowena’s works, it showed the Daughters of Glass, after the spell that had taken their souls. Each lay pale and still in their crystal coffin.

“Brad bought that at auction, without knowing what was going to happen here, just as Jordan bought one of Rowena’s paintings, the young Arthur on the point of drawing the sword from the stone, at the gallery where Malory used to work. Also years before we knew what we know now. So… this, in turn, connects all of us with Rowena and Pitte and the goddesses.”

“And Kane,” Zoe added. “I don’t think it’s smart to leave him out.”

“You’re right,” Dana agreed. “And Kane. He’s messed with most of us already, and it’s pretty clear he’ll mess with us again. We know he’s bad. We know he’s powerful. But those powers aren’t without limits.”

“Or someone or something limits him. He took a slice out of me,” Jordan continued. “Then Rowena sends a little potion home with Dana. You guys saw this yesterday.” He opened his shirt. The cuts were now only fading welts. “They started healing minutes after we slapped the stuff on them. The point is, whatever he did couldn’t hold up against Rowena. And whatever she did to counter it couldn’t erase it completely.”

“To which we conclude,” Dana finished for him, “that they’re pretty evenly matched.”

“He has weaknesses.” Absently Jordan rebuttoned his shirt. “Ego, pride, temper.”

“Who said those were weaknesses?” Dana wandered over, sat on the arm of the chair Brad had taken. “Anyway, it’s more. He doesn’t really get us—the whole human or mortal thing. He doesn’t get us as individuals. He skims the surface, picks up on our little fantasies or fears, but he doesn’t really get to the core—or hasn’t. That’s how Malory beat him.”

“Yes, but when he has hold of you, it’s hard to see clearly, hard to know.” Malory shook her head. “We can’t underestimate him.”

“I’m not. But up to now, I think, he has underestimated us.” Thoughtfully, Dana studied the portrait. “He wants them to suffer, simply because part of them is mortal. Rowena talked of opposing forces: beauty and ugliness, knowledge and ignorance, courage and cowardice. How without one the other loses its punch. So he’s the dark, and you can’t have light without dark. I figure he’s essential to the whole deal, not just an annoyance.”

She hesitated, then took a drink. “It’s no secret that Jordan and I were intimate. I don’t think it’s any secret that we’re… intimate now.”

Jordan waited a beat. “I’ve never known you to get flustered talking about sex, Stretch.”

“I just want to make it clear to… people. To you, that I’m not sleeping with you as a way to find the key. Even if that has something to do with it,” she continued quickly, “because as somebody told me recently, sex is powerful magic—”

“If you do it right,” Jordan interrupted.

“So let’s see what we know,” Brad said, trying to get back on track. “None of this would have happened—past— without Kane.” Brad tapped his index fingers together, “His presence and manipulations influence the search for the key. Present.” He held up a second finger, “And there’s no finish to the spell without him.” And a third. “He’s a necessary factor. There’s no reward without work, no victory without effort, no battle won without risk.”

“It’s another traditional element of a quest,” Jordan added. “An evil to be overcome.”

“I understand all this,” Zoe said. “And it’s important. But how does it help Dana find the key?”

“Know your enemy,” Brad told her.

“That nutshelled it,” Dana agreed.

“But there’s more,” Flynn noted. “Blood has been shed. Another traditional quest element. I can read, too,” he said. “Why was it Jordan’s blood? There’s a reason for it.”

“Might be because Jordan pissed him off, which he’s really good at doing,” Dana said. “But more likely it’s because I need Jordan to find the key.”

“Stretch, you need me for so many things.”

“Let’s ignore the ego burst and stay focused.” Dana gestured with her glass. “The key’s knowledge. Something I know, or have to learn. A truth that has to be sifted out from lies. Kane mixes his truth and lies. What is it he’s said or done that’s truth? That’s one of the angles I’m playing. Then there’s the last bit of the clue. Where one goddess walks another waits. That’s a stumper so far. Malory’s goddess was singing, and she re-created that moment, and the key, by painting it. Following that, my goddess, Niniane, should be walking. But where, why, when? And which goddess waits? Would that be Zoe’s?”

“Maybe you’re supposed to write it,” Zoe suggested. “Like a story, I mean. The way Malory painted hers.”

“That’s not bad.” Dana considered. “The thing is, I never wanted to write, not like Malory wanted to paint. But maybe it’s something I’m supposed to read, and God knows I’m not hitting on anything in the six million books I’ve gone through so far. So maybe I have to write it myself, first.”

“Maybe Jordan does.” Flynn played absently with Malory’s hair as he thought it through. “He’s the writer— not to diminish my own considerable talent, but I report. He just makes shit up.”

“Really good shit,” Jordan reminded him.

“Goes without saying. I’m thinking here that if for nothing other than the cohesion and the exercise, Jordan could write all this out. In story form. Maybe when Dana reads it, the scales will fall from her eyes, she’ll pull out the key, and we can all have a party, with cake.”

“It’s not an entirely stupid idea,” Dana decided.

“I think it’s great.” Zoe shifted in her seat to beam at Jordan. “Will you do it? I just love reading your books, and this would be even more fun.”

“For you, gorgeous?” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Anything.”

“I’m feeling a little queasy.” Dana patted her stomach. “How soon will you have something I can see?” she asked Jordan.

“Okay, now you sound like an editor. It could force me to have a creative tantrum and slow everything down.”

“Do you? Have creative tantrums, I mean.” To Zoe, the idea was fascinating. “I’ve always wondered how it works, with artists and all.”

“Oh, God, now she’s called him an artist.” Dana got to her feet. “I must go home and lie down.”

Ignoring her, Jordan gave Zoe his attention. “No, not really. It’s a job, just happens to be a really great job. My editor—my real editor,” he added with a glance at Dana, “is a woman of discerning taste, skill, and diplomacy.”

“Your editor’s a woman? How does it work? Do you work with her all the way through a book, or does she tell you what she wants you to do, or…” She trailed off, shook her head. “Sorry. Way, way off topic.”

“It’s okay. Do you want to write?”

“Write? Me?” The idea had her exotic eyes going wide before she laughed. “No. I just tike knowing how things work.”

“Speaking of work, we’ve got a full day of it tomorrow.” Malory gave Flynn’s hand a pat.

“That’s my cue. I’ll go round up Moe for you,” Flynn told Dana.

“I’m running low on dog food. He eats like an elephant.”

“I’ll drop some off.” He caught her face in his hands. “Keep him close, okay?”

“He doesn’t give me a lot of choice.”

“Flynn, would you round up Simon, too?” Automatically, Zoe began stacking dishes. “He’s probably attached to Moe at the hip, so he shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

“Sure.”

“We’d better cut out too. I’m going to see if I can get this one started on his homework.” Dana jerked a thumb at Jordan. “Any tips for that, Zoe?”

“Bribery. That’s my method.”

Brad stepped over, laid a hand on Zoe’s. And made her jump like a rabbit. “You don’t have to bother with those.”

“Sorry.” She instantly set the plates down. “Habit.”

It seemed to Brad that the woman deliberately misinterpreted every second word out of his mouth. “I just meant you don’t have to pick up. Anybody want coffee?”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Dana gave Jordan a nudge toward the doorway. “It’s work for you, pal. You can have coffee when you’ve gotten a couple of pages done.”

“Bribery.” Zoe nodded approval. “It never fails.”

Moe bounded into the room, a wild blur of fur. In his delight to see everyone, he leaped, licked, swept glasses off the coffee table with an exuberant tail, and nosed his way into a plate of cocktail shrimp before he could be controlled.

“Sorry, sorry.” With one hand hooked in Moe’s collar, Flynn dragged the dog, or was dragged by him, toward the door. “I’ll put him in Jordan’s car. Bill me for damages. See you. Oh, Zoe, Simon needs a few more minutes to finish a game. Jesus Christ, Moe! Hold up!”

“This is my life now,” Malory said happily. “It’s kind of great. Thanks, Brad, sorry about the dishes. See you tomorrow, Zoe, Dana. ’Night, Jordan.”

“I have to go save my upholstery.” Jordan grabbed Dana’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “Later.”

“Stop yanking me. Smooches, Brad. See you in the morning, Zoe.”

The door slammed behind them, and there was absolute silence.

It had all happened so fast, was all Zoe could think. She’d never intended to be the last one to leave. It was horrible. Horrifying.

She considered running into the game room and grabbing Simon, but she wasn’t exactly sure where it was. And she could hardly stand where she was and shout for him. Still, she needed to do something.

She bent down to pick up the glasses Moe had knocked to the floor. At exactly the same moment, so did Brad.

Their heads bumped. Each of them straightened quickly, then stood taut as bows.

“I’ll get them.” He crouched, gathered up the glasses, set them on the coffee table. He was close enough to catch her scent now. It was always different, sometimes earthy, sometimes light, always very female.

It was one of the fascinating things about her, he mused. The variety of her.

“Coffee?”

“I really should just get Simon. It’s nearly his bedtime.”

“Oh. Well. Okay.”

When he just stood, looking at her, Zoe felt embarrassed heat creeping up the back of her neck. Had she done something wrong? Left out something?

“Thanks for having us.”

“Glad you could make it.”

During the next long pause, she had to make a conscious effort not to bite her lip. “Simon? I don’t know exactly where he is.”

“The game room. Oh.” Amused at both of them, Brad laughed. “You don’t know where the game room is. Come on, I’ll take you back.”

The more Zoe saw of the house, the more in love with it, and intimidated by it, she was. To begin with, there was so much of it, all of it charming or stunning or just lovely. She imagined the things she noticed on tables or shelves were several levels up from knickknacks.

Brad veered off through an archway into what she assumed was some sort of library. The soaring ceiling was done in wood and made the room feel open while still managing to be co2y.

“There’s so much room.” She stopped, appalled that she’d spoken out loud.

“The story is, once my father got started, he couldn’t stop. He’d get another idea, add it into the design.”

“It’s a wonderful house,” she said quickly. “So much detail without being fussy. You must’ve loved growing up here.”

“I did.”

He stepped into another room. Zoe already heard the roar of engines, the vicious gunfire, the breathless chant— come on, come on, come on—of her son.

The video game was some sort of urban car war that flashed over an enormous wall-size TV screen. Simon sat cross-legged on the floor rather than in one of the cushy recliners in a room that fulfilled every boy’s fantasy.

A pool table, three pinball machines, two video-arcade games. Slot machines, a soda machine, a jukebox.

The ceiling here was coffered, framed in honey-toned wood that shielded strips of lights.

There was another fireplace, with cheerful flames snapping, as well as a small, glossy bar and a second television with an entire cabinet devoted to various components.

“Gosh. This is Simon Michael McCourt’s personal version of heaven.”

“My dad loves toys. We spent a lot of time in here.”

“I bet.” She stepped up behind her son. “Simon. We have to go.”

“Not yet, not yet.” His face was fierce with concentration. “This is Grand Theft Auto Three! I’m really close, really close to having them call out the National Guard. Tanks and everything! I’m kicking Swat Team butt. I could set a record. Ten more minutes.”

“Simon. Mr. Vane needs his house back.”

“Mr. Vane is fine with this,” Brad corrected.

“Please, Mom. Please. Tanks.”

She wavered. She saw more than the heat of competition on his face as he stared at the screen. She saw joy.

Someone died on-screen with a great deal of splashing blood, and from the delighted cackle she figured it wasn’t Simon.

“It’s a little violent,” Brad realized and winced. “If you don’t want him playing this sort of thing—”

“Simon knows the difference between reality and video games.”

“Right. Good. Why don’t we go have that coffee?” Brad suggested. “A few more minutes can’t hurt.”

“All right. Ten minutes, Simon.”

“Okay, Mom, thanks, Mom. I’m going to do it,” he mumbled, already back in the groove. “I’m going to do it.”

“It’s nice of you to let him play with your things,” Zoe began as they left Simon to the battle. “He talked about being out here before for days.”

“He’s a great kid. Fun to be around.”

“I certainly think so.”

She found herself in the kitchen with him—another spacious, stunning room. This one done in bright, cheerful white and toasty yellows that would make it seem sunny even on a gloomy day.

She coveted the acres of counter space, the forest of cupboards, some with gorgeous seeded glass. She admired the sleek appliances that had to make cooking a creative joy rather than a mundane chore.

Then it occurred to her that she was, once again, alone with him.

“You know, I should just go back with Simon, and let you… do whatever. We’ll be out of your way quicker.”

He finished measuring out coffee before he turned to her. “Why do you think I want you out of my way?”

“I’m sure you have things to do.”

“Not so much.”

“Well, I do. A million things. I should really be ready to pry Simon away before he loses control and starts another game. I’ll just go get him, and we’ll let ourselves out.”

“I don’t get it.” Forgetting the coffee, Brad stepped closer to her. “I really don’t get it.”

“What?”

“You’re comfortable enough with Flynn and Jordan to flirt with them, but two minutes with me and you’re not only blowing cold, you’re halfway out the door.”

“It’s not flirting.” Her voice went sharp. “Not like that. We’re friends. They’re Malory’s and Dana’s boyfriends, for Pete’s sake. And if you think I’m the sort of person who’d—”

“Then there’s that,” Brad continued with what he considered admirable calm. “The way you automatically jump to conclusions, usually the wrong ones, when it comes to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. In the first place, I barely know you.”

“That’s not true. People get to know each other pretty quickly in intense situations. We’re in one, and we’ve been in one for close to two months now. We’ve spent time together, we have good mutual friends, and you’ve cooked me dinner.”

“I didn’t cook you dinner.” Her chin came up. “You happened to be at the house when I cooked dinner. You ate. That’s different.”

“Point for you,” he acknowledged. “You know, for some reason your response to me causes me to start sounding like my father when he’s annoyed. There’s this tone he gets in his voice, this change of body language. Used to bug the hell out of me when I was a kid.”

“I have no intention of bugging the hell out of you. We’ll leave.”

In Brad’s mind there was a time for talk and there was a time for action. When you were fed up, it was time for action. He closed a hand over her arm to keep her in place, watched temper and nerves rush across her truly spectacular face.

“There it is,” he told her. “Your usual response to me. Annoyance and/or nervousness. I’ve been asking myself why that is. I spend a lot of time asking myself questions about you.”

“Then you must have a lot of time to waste. Let go. I’m leaving.”

“And one of my theories is,” he continued easily, “this.”

He cupped his other hand at the nape of her neck, pulled her forward, and kissed her.

He’d wanted to kiss her for weeks. Maybe for years. He’d wanted the taste of her on his lips, on his tongue, in his blood. And the feel of her, he thought as he slipped an arm around her waist to bring her more firmly against him.

Her mouth was so full, so ripe, sand much more potent than he’d anticipated. Her body quivered once against his, in shock, in response. At the moment it didn’t matter.

Just as it didn’t matter if this single act was taken as a declaration of war or an offer of peace. He only knew he’d slowly been going mad waiting to hold her.

She’d hesitated instead of pushing him away. And that, she would think later, when thinking was an option again, was her mistake.

He was warm and hard, and his mouth was skilled. And God, it had been so long since she’d been pressed against a man. She felt the need lift inside her, from the toes to the belly to the throat, followed by that long, lovely pull and flutter that took it all the way back down.

For one mad moment, she drew him in. The male scent and flavor, the strength and the passion, and let it tumble through her in a kind of joyful spree.

It was like a carnival, like the giddiest of rides when you couldn’t be sure—not absolutely—-that you wouldn’t be flung out of your seat and into the air.

And wasn’t that fabulous?

Then she slammed on the brakes. What choice did she have? She knew what happened when you rode too fast, too hard, too high.

And this wasn’t her place, this wasn’t her man. What was hers—her child—was playing in the next room.

She pulled out of Brad’s arms.

He was shaken, right down to the soles of his feet, but he stared into her eyes and nodded coolly. “I think that made my point.”

She was no quaking virgin, and a long way from being an easy mark. She didn’t step back, that would have been retreat, but stood firm and kept her eyes level with his. “Let’s get a few things straight. I like men. I like their company, their conversation, their humor. I happen to be raising one of my own, and I intend to do a good job of it.”

She looked, he thought, like an angry, and aroused, wood nymph. “You are doing a good job of it.”

“I like kissing men—the right man, the right circumstances. I like sex, under the same conditions.”

His eyes warmed to a deep, foggy gray that was unexpected and compelling. The charming creases in his cheeks—too manly, Zoe thought, to be called dimples— deepened. Her fingers itched to trace those creases, and the sensation warned her she was in trouble.

“That’s a relief to me.”

“You’d better understand that I make the conditions at this point in my life. The fact that I have a kid and I’m not married doesn’t make me easy.”

Angry shock leaped into his face. “For Christ’s sake, Zoe. Where did we veer from me finding you interesting and attractive and wanting to kiss you to finding you easy?”

“I want to be clear, that’s all. Just like I’m going to be clear that nobody uses my kid to get to me.”

The shock, the anger iced over. The chill hit him from a foot away. “If you assume that’s what I’m doing, you’re insulting all three of us.”

She felt twin jolts of guilt and embarrassment. As she started to speak, Simon flew into the room. “I rule! Beat your high score, sucker!” He danced around Brad, shaking his index fingers in the air in a victory dance.

With effort, Brad folded his emotions further inside, then hooked an arm around Simon’s neck. “A momentary event, I promise you. Gloat while you have the chance, you midget.”

“Next time I’m beating your butt in the NBA play-offs.”

“Never happen. And when I humiliate you, you will crawl to me on your belly like the insignificant worm you are.”

As she watched the exchange, saw their obvious enjoyment of each other, her guilt only increased. “Simon, we have to go.”

“Okay. Thanks for letting me mop the floor with ya.”

“I’m just luring you in, so crushing you will be more gratifying.” With his arm still around the boy, he looked at the mother. “I’ll get your coats.”