the haunting drive, revealing the beautiful stone facades of the houses. Each of the cousins had her own, all part of the estate that had been left to their grandfather by his friend Merlin the Great: magician extraordinaire, aka Ivan Schwartz. The senior Gryffalds had passed the houses on to their three Keeper sons; Barrie had grown up in the house called Gwydion’s Cave, after a mythological Welsh magician. And now that their fathers had been called to council, the international gathering of Keepers, the three houses belonged to the three cousins.
Barrie parked her car in the circle and walked through the pool area with its gazebo and jasmine-covered trellises toward the Cave, as she thought of it.
The pool brought on another very unwelcome flashback of the dark sensuality of the Chateau and the feeling of Mick’s hands on her skin, her breasts....
Stop it.
Barrie ran the last steps to her door and flung it open. Inside, she slammed the door behind her and had at least a moment of peace as she let herself relax in the familiar luxury of home.
Gwydion’s Cave was decorated with old peacock fans, marble pieces, antique mirrors and rich remnants of decadence from the days of the speakeasies. There was even a Victrola with a collection of recordings of the bawdiest songs from the 1920s.
It was a period Barrie especially vibrated to, a time when women threw off their corsets, claimed the vote and danced their way into independence in society. But she also loved the twenties for their sheer style, one of the few traits she shared with her complicated mother, so being able to live in the Cave, in such old Hollywood splendor, was icing on the cake of her Keeper existence.
She started down the hall lined with antique mirrors and felt a wave of exhaustion that had her swaying on her feet. A double murder, an Otherworldly mystery, and a powerful unexpected attraction...and it was up to her to sort it all....
Sleep. I need to sleep. This all won’t seem so...overwhelming...in the morning.
She barely had the energy to engage the elaborate security system behind her, then she stumbled off to bed.
* * *
But of course she couldn’t sleep. She lay in her bed, a carved canopied thing with satin sheets and pillows, and could think only of Mick Townsend.
God, she wanted him. Her whole body was on fire...the slightest move of her clothing or the sheets on her skin was making her crazy with desire.
She closed her eyes and stretched her arms out to her sides, imagining Mick holding her down, the whole delicious weight of him on top of her, his mouth on her breasts, his knee parting her thighs so his hot hard length could slide into her core....
The fantasy was so strong, the memory of his touch so vivid, she could almost feel him on top of her, his hands on her wrists, the tip of him teasing her open...and then the thrust of him, the massive pleasure of his sex inside her, filling her, inflaming her....
She moaned and writhed underneath him, and his thrusts deepened...quickened...driving her to the brink...it was so good...so real....
Her eyes flew open and above her she saw—
Golden skin, blond hair, blue eyes...
She gasped aloud and sat straight up in shock and terror.
Daylight streamed through the cracks in the drapes.
She was alone.
Well, not completely alone. Her cat, Princess Sophie, was curled up on a pillow beside her. Sophie lifted her head to blink at her sleepily.
Barrie caught her breath and lay slowly back. “Johnny Love,” she said softly. “Oh, my God.”
That was the dream image she’d had before she’d woken up. Not Mick, but the young dead actor.
She shivered, disturbed.
But she knew where the image had come from.
As she’d hit the bed last night—this morning—she’d kept her eyes open long enough to reach for her iPad and search “Saul Mayo and Johnny Love” on Google. She had learned one very interesting thing. Mayo had been the producer of Johnny Love’s last movie, the cult classic Otherworld. So, the two had known each other, worked together.
And she’d incorporated the photos of Johnny Love she’d been looking at into her dream.
She shivered to shake off a strange chill and grabbed for her phone to check the time.
11:00 a.m., which meant Sailor was probably back from her run, the little freak. If Barrie was lucky, both her cousins were still at home. She definitely needed to talk.
And there would be no more obsessing over Mick Townsend. It was