J.B. couldn't see her bathrobe under her blanket. It was one of Olivia's, or perhaps had been left by a former guest. It looked like something Lucy Ricardo might have worn.

She decided to change the subject. "Kyle called while I was making tea. He wanted to know if I'd thought about his request."

"Have you?"

"No. I went kayaking to avoid thinking about anything."

"Didn't work, did it?"

She ignored him. "Periodically for about three years before she died, Aunt Olivia would have me burn stuff she didn't want to leave behind after she was gone. I protested, but she was adamant. She'd have done it herself if I'd refused."

"Sounds like a character."

"She didn't want anyone-family, scholars, gossip hounds-pawing through her private thoughts and possessions after she was dead. She knew she was famous. Kyle knows all this, you realize."

"So no big surprises in the attic."

"I doubt it."

"Did she know you wanted to write?"

Zoe was so startled by his question, she ended up spilling her tea over her hand. She yelled out, but he was there, taking the cup from her, setting it back on its saucer.

"Did you burn yourself?" he asked.

She nodded, feeling flushed and exposed, as if he could see not just through her, but into her, which she knew was all in her head-a result of being off balance. She sucked on her burned knuckle. "I didn't want to write. I don't want to write. I was just…scribbling. I don't know. It wasn't anything."

J.B. stood back and sat on the porch railing, the lawn and beach roses, the bluff and the ocean behind him. "You resurrected Jen Periwinkle."

She lifted her gaze to him. "I thought you couldn't read my handwriting."

He shrugged. "I could read that much. Did you start writing before your father was killed and your aunt died?"

Zoe slipped both hands under her blanket and tightened it around her, her fingers stiff from the cold and nerves. "No, after. I stayed here by myself. I made the nook up in the attic, but if it was warm enough, I'd write out here on the porch sometimes. It was a way to get my mind off everything."

"Funny that your aunt left you the rights to Jen Periwinkle." J.B. placed his hands on the porch railing on either side of him, and she noticed several scars, not that old. "If most of the books are out of print, maybe she wanted you to keep her going, reinvent her for the next century."

"I don't even know if there'd be an audience. And in her will, Olivia made it clear that I was under no pressure from her from the grave-she'd tried to kill off Jen herself but couldn't."

J.B. laughed. "And here I've been thinking your aunt was a practical old Mainer-sounds like she could be loosey-goosey."

For a moment, Zoe felt as if Olivia was out here with them, her wisps of white hair in her face as she enjoyed the fresh air and the incomparable view. Her throat caught. "She was something, J.B."

"Tell me about that last day," he said. "When you told her about your father."

"There's nothing to say. I barreled into the kitchen like a crazy woman and blurted that Dad had been murdered."

"Was anyone else here?"

"Betsy O'Keefe."

"The woman living with Luke Castellane?"

"Not then. She was my aunt's caregiver. She's an R.N., but she also served as a companion and personal assistant. They worked out the arrangements. Olivia was prickly at first, but Betsy was so patient with her, always willing to compromise. She had just the right mix of spine and kindness for the job."

"Ever imagine her with Luke?" Zoe shook her head. "Betsy never seemed interested in romantic relationships, or even friendships. She's always struck me as a solitary sort. Nice, not someone who needs a lot of people in her life. I suppose that makes her good for the kind of work she does."

J.B. said nothing for a moment, and Zoe thoughtabout how little she knew about him-a powder keg according to Stick, yet he hadn't done anything out of control or nuts as far as she could see. Unless she counted helping himself to a room in her house.

"How'd she end up with Luke?" he asked.

"I don't really know. Aunt Olivia always liked him. She said he was an abused and neglected little boy and that made him a self-absorbed and often not very pleasant man, but she held out hope for him. He was devastated when she died."

J.B. eased off the rail. "I've seen Luke Castellane around town a few times. He strikes me as an arrogant son of a bitch." He smiled. "But maybe your aunt was more tolerant than I am."

"I'd call her observant more than tolerant." Zoe fought off a sudden wave of nostalgia, regret, sense of loss. "She always expected the good in people to triumph."

"That's not a bad way to live."

"You think so? I'd have expected you to say it's naive."

"One kiss and she thinks she knows me." He moved toward her, deliberately, dominating her view, and smiled. "That brought some heat to your cold cheeks, didn't it, Detective Zoe? Still shivering?"

Not anymore, she thought. "It was staying in my wet clothes that did me in. If I could have gotten out of them sooner-" She stopped, aware of a darkening of his eyes. She warned herself not to read anything into it, but she could feel how scantily clad she was under her wool blanket. She'd at least pulled on dry, warm socks. Hiking socks and a silky bathrobe. Very sexy. "I'm much warmer now."

J.B. stood directly in front of her, his toes almost touching hers, and seemed to hesitate a moment, as if he thought she might jump up and run back into the house-or giving her the chance to.

Then he skimmed a crooked finger over her cheek and caught the damp ends of her hair. "You got soaked, didn't you?"

"Head to toe," she managed to say.

He let his finger slide under her jaw and tilted her face up toward him, then slowly lowered his mouth to hers. He gave her another chance to scoot inside, to back him off, if she'd wanted to. But she didn't, and instead she parted her lips slightly, taking in a small breath as his mouth touched hers. He pulled back a little, and she thought that'd be the end of it, but she was wrong. He cupped his hand at the back of her head and kissed her for a long time, letting his mouth play against hers.

Her blanket slipped off her shoulders, and her flimsy bathrobe fell open, exposing the swell of her breasts but, mercifully, not her nipples. Her skin was overheated now; the contrast to the chilly air seemed erotic.

He trailed one hand down her throat, let his fingertip skim over the curve of one breast before he took in a sharp breath and whispered into her mouth, "I need to stop now or I won't." He stood up straight, but his gaze shot straight to her breasts, his jaw tightening as he raked one hand through his hair. "Hell, Zoe."

"I don't know." Her voice was hoarse, and she quickly tugged her blanket back over her shoulders. "At least my kiss this morning wasn't a toe-curler."

"Oh, you don't think so?"

"It was spur-of-the-moment."

"Ah-ha."

"It was."

"So you think I walked out here with the specific intention of kissing you?"

She swallowed. "I didn't say that."

"Where'd you get the robe?"

Her throat was tight, dry, and she could feel her skin tingling under her blanket, wondered what she'd have done if he hadn't pulled back. Made love to him out here on the porch? Let him carry her inside? She shook off the images. "Bedroom closet. It reminds me of Lucy Ricardo, except I don't have red hair."

He went to the porch door and pulled it open with more force than was necessary, and she realized he was on edge, fighting for self-control. His muscles seemed tensed, his back rigid. He glanced back at her. "Your sis-ter's invited us to dinner tonight."

His clenched teeth undermined the normality of his words. Zoe took a quick breath, remembered Stick's warning about him. An undercover agent who'd killed a man in front of his children. Who'd almost been killed himself. A potentially dangerous man who was supposed to be in Maine cooling his heels, not getting mixed up in a year-old murder investigation.