Key of Light (Key 1)

Legends, as much for their beauty as their talent. Goddesses of the screen.

Goddesses.

Her fingers shook as she took the first print from the wall.

She had to be right. This had to be it.

But she examined every print, every frame, then every inch of the room, and found nothing.

Refusing to be discouraged, she sat at his desk. She was close. A step off, one way or the other, but close. The pieces were all there, she was certain of it now. She just needed to find the right pattern and make them fit.

She needed to get out in the air for a while, let it turn over in her mind.

She would do something ordinary while it brewed in there.

No, not something ordinary. Something inspired. Something artful.

FLYNN decided it was time to reverse the roles back to where they had started, and so he stopped off on the way home to buy her flowers. There was a bite of fall in the air, and its nip had already teased color into the trees. The surrounding hills were hazed with reds and golds and umbers over the green.

Over those hills, a three-quarter moon would rise tonight.

Did she think of that, he wondered, and worry?

Of course she did. It would be impossible for a woman like Malory to do otherwise. Still, she’d been happy when she came to his office. He meant to keep her that way.

He would take her out to dinner. Maybe drive into Pittsburgh for a change of scene. A long drive, a fancy dinner—that would appeal to her, keep her mind off . . .

The minute he stepped in the front door, he knew something was off.

It smelled . . . good.

A little lemony, he thought as he approached the living room. A little spicy. With female undertones. Did women just sort of exude scent when they’d been in a place for a few hours?

“Mal?”

“Back here! In the kitchen!”

The dog beat him by a mile and was already being given a biscuit, a stroke, and a firm nudge out the back door. Flynn wasn’t sure what made his mouth water, the scents pumping out of the stove or the woman wearing a white bib apron.

God, who knew an apron could be sexy?

“Hi. What’re you doing?”

“Cooking.” She shut the back door. “I know it’s an eccentric use for a kitchen, but call me crazy. Flowers?” Her eyes went soft, almost dewy. “They’re pretty.”

“You are too. Cooking?” He tossed his embryonic plans for the evening aside without a qualm. “Would that involve anything resembling dinner?”

“It would.” She took the flowers, kissed him over them. “I decided to dazzle you with my culinary talents, so I went to the grocery store. You didn’t have anything in here that qualified as actual food.”

“Cereal. I have a lot of cereal.”

“I noticed.” Because he didn’t own a vase, she filled a plastic pitcher with water for the flowers. The fact that she didn’t cringe while doing so made her very proud of herself. “You also didn’t appear to own any of the usual implements used in preparing actual food. Not a single wooden spoon.”

“I don’t understand why they make spoons out of wood. Haven’t we progressed beyond carving tools out of trees?” He picked one up off the counter, then frowned. “Something’s different in here. Something changed.”

“It’s clean.”

Shock registered on his face as he stared around the room. “It is clean. What did you do, hire a brigade of elves? What do they charge by the hour?”