It had been a long day, and it was beginning to grow dark. She hadn’t thought ahead to where they’d stay for the night, but Coop informed her he’d reserved rooms at a place in Two Harbors, a North Shore town a good three hours away. She was drained from the events of the past couple of days, and she’d have preferred someplace closer, but he refused. “I’ve heard about this place, and I want to check it out.”

“How much?”

“More than you can afford. You can pay me back in overtime.”

He was being difficult just to be difficult, but then he redeemed himself. “I’ll admit I wasn’t crazy about getting involved in this, but I’m glad you nagged me into it. You did a good thing back there.”

“You, too,” she said.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the car. She was glad when he flipped on the radio.

He took over the driving when they stopped for gas. Around ten o’clock, he pulled off the two-lane highway into the town of Two Harbors. There weren’t many big hotel chains on the North Shore, but even so, she hadn’t expected him to turn into the gravel lane that ran alongside the city’s iron ore docks.

The hulking docks were eerie at night, their towering, ribbed-steel skeletons reminding her of a dystopian vision of ruined skyscrapers in a once great city. A freighter loading ore from the nearby mines was berthed at one of the docks, the glare of giant floodlights making the scene even ghostlier.

Ahead of them, on top of a bluff, the thin beam from a lighthouse pointed a sweeping finger into the harbor. Coop followed the gravel road right up to the gate of the red brick building. With its narrow windows and chalk-white trim, it would have looked like an old-time schoolhouse if it weren’t for the square light tower rising above one corner.

“We’re staying here?”

“Some friends told me about it. This is the oldest continuously running lighthouse on Lake Superior. The historical society turned it into a B and B a while back.”

She reached for the door handle. “As long as it has two bedrooms, I’m fine with it.”

“Hold it!” He hit the door lock, trapping her in the car and looking pissed for no reason at all. “You don’t seriously imagine I’ll try to get you into bed?”

His reaction took her by surprise. She came up with an exasperated sigh. “I wouldn’t think so, but there was that odious kiss the other night, and since I seem to be a guy magnet for the most unlikely men, what do I know?”

“You’re not a guy magnet.”

“Really? Then what was that kiss about?”

“It was about saving your stupid life.” He pointed one long, sturdy finger at her. “Let’s get something straight, Sherlock. I have no sexual interest in you. None. Zip. Zero. The only reason I kissed you was as a distraction from what I really wanted to do, which was strangle you. Now this conversation is over.”

He unlocked the doors and ejected from the car.

What is with him? She obviously needed sleep because she was a tiny bit peeved about his dismissal of her sex appeal, a jab that wouldn’t have bothered her if it had come from anyone else. More than a tiny bit. She was peeved enough to want to challenge him, but a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Marilyn had appeared at the door. “Mr. Smith? Welcome.”

Mr. Smith? That was the best he could come up with?

He’d flipped the trunk and pulled out a small duffel. Piper retrieved her backpack and followed him into an old-fashioned kitchen with a rag rug to wipe feet, a porcelain sink, and an antique gas stove. White lace curtains draped the bottom halves of the narrow windows, and a coffee mill perched on one of the sills. Beneath it, an American flag folded into a triangle rested on top of a wooden hope chest.

The kitchen smelled of fresh-baked goodness from the two wedges of chocolate cake sitting out on china plates. Through one doorway, she saw a set of stairs, through the other, a turn-of-the-century dining room complete with a steam radiator, dark floral rug, oak dining table, and sideboard displaying china figurines. These were the old lighthouse keeper’s quarters.

Coop introduced her as Ingrid, his massage therapist.

“Piper Dove,” she said. “I’m actually Mr. Smith’s sobriety coach.”

“Well, God bless you,” Marilyn said with a cheery smile. “There’s no shame in admitting you need help, Mr. Smith.”

Piper patted his arm. “Exactly what I’ve been telling him.”

The bad mood that had prompted his little outburst in the car seemed to have faded because he didn’t call her out. She, on the other hand, was still miffed by his put-down. This was a new side of herself she didn’t like.

Marilyn led them into a back hallway, up three steps to a landing, then another three steps-another landing-and into a square hallway with five doors-three to the bedrooms, one to a bathroom, and another into the light tower.

“You’re the only guests tonight, so you won’t have to share the bathroom.”

One of “Mr. Smith’s” eyebrows went up. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have to share a bathroom with the hoi polloi. She, on the other hand, would have appreciated another set of guests for company.

The rooms were homey-wooden headboards, pretty quilts, old-fashioned glass globe lamps, and more lace curtains. Framed black-and-white photographs of ore boats gone-by hung on the walls.

Their hostess, who’d been giving them a minihistory of the lighthouse, pointed out the flashlights in each room for guests who wanted to explore the light tower. “There’s a lighthouse ghost, but most guests don’t see him.” She moved out into the hallway. “If you wouldn’t mind, lock the front door after I leave.”

She was leaving? Piper wasn’t exactly sure why that bothered her. Well, she was sure, but… Even with the town only a few blocks away, the lighthouse felt isolated, like a deserted island. With no grown-up around to chaperone.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Marilyn said. “Breakfast is at eight thirty.” She disappeared down the steps, and a few moments later, the front door shut behind her.

Mom! Don’t you know you shouldn’t leave us kids alone?

He’d set down his duffel, a simple action that burned up all the air in the bedroom. Because of her maddening reaction to what he’d said in the car, she needed to get out of here right away.

“You’re skittish,” he said as she turned to the door.

She whipped back around. “I am not. I’m hungry.”

He dropped his eyelids to half-mast. “Don’t expect me to do anything about that. I already told you. I’m not interested.”

“For cake! I’m hungry for that chocolate cake she left us. Jeez, what is wrong with you?” She bristled with scorn, even as she resisted a compulsion to whip her sweater over her head, rip off her bra, and see how disinterested he’d be in that.

She headed downstairs and retrieved her piece of cake from the kitchen. As she ate, she passed through the dining room into a living room that looked as though it belonged to someone’s cozy great-grandmother. The wing chair and blue damask couch had white doily antimacassars across their backs. An old stereopticon and a pot of African violets sat on top of a glass-front bookcase. There was even a spider plant hanging in the window. She imagined the lighthouse keeper and his wife sitting here at night in a time before electronic distractions. They’d be reading, maybe sewing, talking about the next day’s weather. Then mounting the stairs to their bedroom…

She grabbed the ship’s log from the coffee table and flipped it open. The log invited guests to assume the duties of the lighthouse keeper during their stay: raising and lowering the flag in the morning and evening, entering the names of the ships that came into the harbor, and checking the beacon twice a day.

Coop’s cake still sat on the kitchen counter. She set her empty dish in the sink and went upstairs to her room. She changed into her black plaid pajama bottoms and Chicago Bears T-shirt, but she wasn’t ready for bed. As long as she was here, why not get into the spirit of the place? She fetched her flashlight from the top of the bureau, thrust her feet into flip-flops, and crossed the hallway to play lighthouse keeper.

It was icy cold and dark inside the tower, with not even a trickle of illumination from the big lens above penetrating the thick blackness. She flicked on her flashlight, sending eerie shadows looming up the plastered walls. A narrow staircase with treads painted a dark maroon led to the lantern room high above. A small window on the landing pointed toward the harbor, but fog had crept in since they’d arrived, and she could make out only the dimmest structural outline of the iron ore docks.

She began to climb the stairs. The chill penetrated her T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She curled her toes to keep her flip-flops from slapping the wooden stair treads. The creepy shadows, the darkness, the isolation… It was deliciously sinister. She felt as if she’d slipped into one of the mysteries she’d devoured as a kid. Piper Dove and the Secret of the Lighthouse Murders.

She reached another tiny landing, this one with a round porthole. Still no light visible from the big lens above. She flipped off her flashlight to gaze through the porthole out toward the lake, but the fog was too thick to see anything.

She heard a noise below.

The click of a door opening. The stealthy sound of a foot hitting the bottom tread.

The lighthouse murderer had followed her here.

She knew his identity. He knew she knew his identity. He couldn’t afford to let her leave here alive.

No one to help.

Only herself to depend on.

Alone in a deserted lighthouse with a demented villain who had killed… and intended to kill again.

Life didn’t get any better than this!

She flattened herself into the corner, not making a sound, the dead flashlight hanging at her side. He moved with the stealth of a panther. But then, he would.

His footsteps came closer. Closer. Closer still.

He hit the landing.

She sprang out. Shrieked. “Yeeeeeeeeeeoooooooo!”

He yelped. Dropped his flashlight. Crashed back against the wall.

He was actually clutching his chest. As she turned on her own flashlight, she realized she’d perhaps gone a wee bit too far. “Um… Hey, what’s up?” she said.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he yelled.

“Just… having some fun witcha. I might have gotten a little carried away.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat. He lunged for her. Caught her by the shoulders. Gave her a hard shake. And then he kissed her. Again.

She felt his anger in the force of his lips, the coiled tension in his body. He dragged her against him, making her seem small and defenseless, even though she was neither.

“I have no sexual interest in you. None. Zip. Zero.”

She’d see about that.

She dropped her own flashlight and pressed against him.

He was already hard.

He wasn’t the only one who loved a challenge, and instead of withdrawing, she looped her arms around his neck. Cooper Graham, you are so full of crap. She tilted her head. Parted her lips. He thought he was so tough. Lord and master over all women. Well, not this woman. She slipped off one flip-flop and stepped up on his shoe to make herself taller and deepen their kiss. Making certain he got the point.

Which he did. His lips softened, opened. Their tongues met. She plowed her fingers into his hair. His big hands cupped her bottom. She wrapped her other leg around his as the warmth of his broad palms spread through the thin cotton pajama fabric to her skin. How do you like me now?

Very much, it seemed. Their tongues battled. And…

She was melting inside. Melting and burning all at the same time. Her knees grew soggy, forcing her back to arch, ringing alarm clocks of urgency inside her. Buzzing, chiming, flashing alarms of urgency.

She was burning from the inside out. His big, athletic hands lifted her off the floor. Braced her against the wall as if she weighed nothing at all. Their kiss turned into a wild thing all its own. Her hands were under his T-shirt, her fingers sinking into the hard flesh of his back.

He pulled away abruptly. Grabbed her by the shoulder and directed her ahead of him down the stairs. They emerged into the light of the hallway. She spun toward him. Opened her mouth to speak.

“Shut up,” he said before she could utter a word. “I don’t like this any better than you.”

It was the best thing he could have said. They were no longer Piper and Coop. They were simply two bodies in need of release. Depersonalized. Sex at its most primitive.