“You’re not the only one fighting a battle, Zoe. I’m in this as deep as you. And damned if I can figure out if loving you is a sword or a curse.”

“Do you ever ask yourself, in some quiet moment, whether you think you love me because my face is in that painting?”

He started to speak, then stopped himself and gave her the plain truth. “Yes.”

“So do I. One thing I do know is I don’t want to lose you. I won’t risk losing what we have now by making or asking for promises that neither of us may want to keep down the road.”

“You keep waiting for me to let you down, Zoe. You’re going to have a long wait.”

Surprised, she turned around. “I don’t. I’m not. It’s—”

She broke off as Simon burst in the back door. “I’m starving.”

“Dinner’s in ten minutes.” She reached out to stroke his hair. “Go ahead and wash up. I got off the track,” she said to Brad as Simon zoomed out in a flurry of dogs. “I was working my way around to asking you if I could go through your house.”

Irritation flickered over his face. “You try my patience, Zoe.”

“I imagine I do,” she said calmly, and turned back to finish sautéing the beef and vegetables. “And I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to give me a good kick in the ass. But I’ve got a lot of important balls in the air right now, and I’m not going to drop any of them.”

He remembered the way her face had glowed when she’d come home that afternoon. What was the point, he asked himself, in dimming that light because he was frustrated, even angry, that she didn’t just leap into his arms and give him everything he wanted, all on one big plate?

“I reserve the right for the ass-kicking. Why ask me if you can go through the house when you’re living . . . when you’re staying here?”

“I mean go through it like I did my own and Indulgence. Top to bottom, which would mean poking into personal spaces.” She got out a platter, scooped her finished rice onto it. “I think the key’s in this house, Bradley. No, that’s not right. I know it is. I feel it.”

Efficiently, she topped the mound of rice with the contents of the skillet. “Something just opened up for me today when I drove up here, and I know it. I don’t know where or how, I just know it is.”

He looked at her, looked at the platter. In under thirty minutes, he calculated, she had talked him through another stage in her quest, irritated him, amused him, fended off a proposal, and cooked a very attractive meal.

Was it any wonder she fascinated him?

“When do you want to start?”

THEY gave it two hours after Simon was in bed, starting with the lower level. She searched every inch of the great room, moving furniture, rolling up rugs, going through drawers, into closets. Armed with a flashlight, she checked the fireplace, testing each stone, running her fingers over the mantel.

She started the same treatment on the dining room, then stopped and sent Brad an apologetic look. “Would you mind if I did this by myself? Maybe it takes doing it alone.”

“Maybe you think you have to do too much alone, but all right. I’ll be upstairs.”

She was fumbling one of those important balls, Zoe admitted when he left her. And she was counting, maybe a little too much, on his patience. Still, she didn’t know what else to do, or how else to do it.

For now, her wants, and his, would have to wait until she had completed her quest and what she loved was safe.

She moved to the buffet, ran her hands over the wood. Cherry, she thought. A warm, rich wood, and the curves of the design made the piece airy while the mirrored back added a sparkle.

He’d arranged a few pieces on it, a thick bowl of hazy green glass, a colorful tray that was probably French or Italian, a couple of fat candle stands, and a brass dish with a woman’s face carved into the lid. Lovely pieces, artful, she thought. The sort of things Malory would sell in her gallery.

She lifted the lid on the dish and found a few coins inside. Foreign coins, she realized with delight. Irish pounds, French francs, Italian lire, Japanese yen. What a wonder that was, she mused, to have those careless pieces of such fascinating places tossed inside a dish.

He might not even remember they were there, and that was more amazing.

She closed the lid, and put aside the vague guilt of peeking into personal spaces as she opened the first drawer.

It was a silverware drawer, lined in deep burgundy velvet. She lifted out a spoon, turned it under the light. It looked old to her, like something that had been used for generations and kept polished and ready.

Perfect for Thanksgiving, she decided, and filed that away as she went carefully through each slot.

She found china in the base of the buffet, an elegant white on white. As she searched she began mentally setting the holiday table with the dishes and bowls, the platters and stemware she found stored in sideboards and servers.

She sighed over linens and damask and a set of bone-white napkin rings. But she found no key.

She was shaking out books in the library when the clock on the mantel chimed one. Enough, she told herself. Enough for one night. She wasn’t going to let herself get discouraged.

The fact was, she realized as she switched off the lamps, she didn’t feel discouraged. More, she felt on the verge of something. As if she’d made some turn, or crested a hill. Maybe it wasn’t the last leg, she thought as she started upstairs. But she was focused on the goal now.

She checked on Simon, going in automatically to tuck him in. Moe lifted his head from the foot of the bed where he stretched out, scented her and gave one halfhearted slap of his tail before starting to snore again.

The puppy was snoozing with his head on the pillow beside Simon’s. She supposed she should discourage that sort of thing, but she honestly couldn’t see why.

They looked so cozy there together. Harmless and unharmed. If Simon was part of it, as Malory believed, then maybe the key was here, in this room where he was sleeping.

For a moment she sat on the edge of the bed, her hand idly stroking his back.

The light from the last quarter of the moon filtered through the window and washed pale light over her son’s face. There was still light, she told herself, so there was still hope. She was holding on to it.

She rose and slipped quietly out of the room.

She glanced toward Brad’s door. For what was left of the night, she would hold on to to him as well.