Twelfth Sun. Mae Clair

      Wind and rain battered the roof of the tiny waterside inn. Reagan Cassidy was thankful to be indoors, out of the storm that had dogged her trip for the last eight hours. When she’d agreed to drive to Shipwright Landing for her uncle, she hadn’t counted on narrow, winding roads or near gale-force winds. The frontal system hanging over the entire New England coast wasn’t scheduled to dissipate until morning. It coaxed protesting creaks and groans from the timbers of the old inn, a brooding two-story surrounded by chestnut trees.

      Mrs. Keller, the matronly gray-haired lady who owned the North Shore, had given her a key for room No. 1 before pointing her toward the stairs. Dripping wet, lugging her overstuffed suitcase behind her, all Reagan could think of was stripping off her sodden clothes and soaking in a hot bath. It was already after eleven PM and she was scheduled to meet her uncle’s friend, Dr. Elijah Cross, in the morning for breakfast.

      Early.

      Stifling a yawn, she dragged her suitcase up the final step and located room No. 1 around a corner in the hall. As she moved to insert her key in the lock, she brushed the door and it drifted open on its own. Mrs. Keller had prepared the room for her, even turning on a bedside lamp to provide a cozy glow. What a sweet lady.

      Reagan set her suitcase on the floor, pausing to study the decor. Interior design was her business so it was easy for her to appreciate the contrasting shades of blue, cream and brown that supported the inn’s nautical theme. The bedside lamp had a brass ship’s wheel mounted at the base, and the walls were paneled with planks of walnut-stained barnboard. A closed door on the adjacent wall led to what she guessed was the bathroom. Heaven!

      The mere thought of soaking in a heated tub made her toes curl. She kicked off her shoes, shed her coat, and dropped it over a chair. Unpacking could wait. Circling the bed, she headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning her wilted silk blouse as she went. The knob turned before she could touch it and the door yawned unexpectedly wide, revealing a man on the threshold.

      Her eyes dropped.

      A completely naked man.

      “Oh, God!” She backpedaled violently, bumping into the wall, trapping herself in the corner. Too stunned to scream, too frightened to move, she clamped her mouth shut. Even when she squeezed her eyes closed, she couldn’t block the sight of him emblazoned behind her lids. Every sheer, startlingly masculine inch of him. A strangled squeak slipped past her lips, shattering the spell. In the space of a single heartbeat, fear, anger and adrenalin ricocheted through her. She grabbed the first thing within reach–the bedside lamp–and wielded it like a club.

      “Get out of my room before I call the police.” Her voice quavered and she was certain she looked absurd, her long red hair dripping wet, the ridiculous lamp with its shiny spoked wheel clutched threateningly in front of her. Too late, she remembered her unbuttoned blouse.

      The man’s eyes settled on the lacy edge of her shell pink bra, then dipped lower to her plunging cleavage. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away and motioned to the lamp. “How about putting that down before you hurt someone?”

      Taken aback by the non-threatening trace of humor in his voice, Reagan gave the lamp a jerk. She raised it above her head in what she hoped was a convincingly intimidating pose. At the last second the cord snapped taut and popped from the wall, plunging the room into shadow. Frightened by the sudden darkness, Reagan tried to shimmy farther away, but her knees collided with the nightstand. Off balance, she struggled to button her blouse, fumbling one-handedly. “Stay where you are. I’m calling the police.”

      “To tell them what?” His voice was nearer and she realized he’d stepped closer to the bed, completely eliminating any chance she had of breaking for the door. “The last time I checked, taking a shower in my room was perfectly legal.”

      “Your room?” She kept the lamp poised, her body tense. He seemed rational enough, but, for all she knew, he could be wired on alcohol or drugs. And he was still blocking her path to the doorway. He looked young enough to have come from Battinger College, forty-six miles to the south. Maybe a grad student or one of the research assistants. At most he couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, an age supported by every toned and muscled line of his body. Her cheeks flamed crimson. “This is my room. And would you please put on some clothes?”

      He grinned in the darkness, revealing even white teeth. “Something more suited to conversation?”

      Reagan looked away. With a chuckle, he padded barefoot to the dresser and rooted through the top drawer for a pair of jeans. A sexual predator wouldn’t have stored clothes in the nearest bureau, but the thought didn’t make her breathe easier. Only when she heard the closing snick of his zipper, did she look again.

      “Better?” He flicked on the wall switch, activating a lamp on the dresser.

      In the sudden flare of brightness, she saw him clearly. His hair wasn’t quite black, but dark-brown, the color of deep-roasted chestnuts. Still wet from his shower, it curled in loose, wayward strands against the back of his neck. Long jet lashes framed remarkable blue eyes, offsetting features more striking than rugged. If she’d met him on the street, she would have discreetly turned her head for a second glance, intrigued by an aura of understated sex appeal. As it was, she wanted him out of her room. She lowered the lamp, but didn’t loosen her grip. There was still the possibility he was drug-crazed or psychotic.

      “I want you to leave. If you go now, I won’t tell the police.”

      Bullshit on that. She’d call as soon as he was out the door, but didn’t plan on broadcasting her intent. A man lurking naked in the bedroom of an unsuspecting woman deserved whatever he got.

      Unconcerned, he crossed his arms over his chest and propped his hip against the dresser, making himself comfortable. “What’s your name?”

      “None of your business.” She was exhausted, frightened and wet. If he left, maybe she could breathe normally again. It wasn’t every night one found a naked man in their bedroom. Well, unless you happened to have a sizzling love life.

      Which she didn’t. If anything, she was accustomed to dry spells, interspersed by periods with macho idiots who spent their time scheming up ways to get her into bed. She’d dumped the last one three months ago, swearing off men indefinitely. At thirty-five, with a flourishing interior design business, upscale condo, two cats and a goldfish, she didn’t need a man to complicate her life.

      Sucking down an unsteady breath, she tried to gather her wits. She shot a glance at the door, silently calculating the odds of reaching it unharmed. He’d positioned himself in such a way that she’d have to sprint directly past him to escape. Even though he appeared non-threatening, she wasn’t ready to take the chance.

      “If