"I appreciate it. I can use the flattery. I really hate to ask you, though."

Shane watched her pour tea and resigned himself to drinking it. "It's not a problem, honey. I'll pick up your college pal and get her back to you safe and sound. A scientist, huh?"

"Hmm..." Regan handed him a cup, knowing he could juggle that and his infant nephew and a few more things besides. "Rebecca's brilliant. Over-the-top brilliant. I only roomed with her one year. She was fifteen, and already a sophomore. She ended up graduating, summa cum laude, a full year ahead of me and the rest of her class. Pretty intimidating.''

Regan sampled the tea, and the relative quiet now that Shane had Jason calmed down to bubbling coos. "It seemed she was always in some lab, or the library."

"Sounds like a barrel of laughs."

"She was—is—a serious type, and tended to be shy. After all, she was years younger than anyone else in school. But we got to be friends. She'd have come for the wedding, but she was in Europe, or Africa." Regan waved vaguely. "Somewhere."

Shane was thinking nostalgically of his own fifteenth year, when he had learned the intricacies of the back-hook bra. In the dark. "It's nice you've got a pal coming to visit."

"Well, it's kind of a working visit for her." Regan gnawed her lip. She hadn't mentioned Rebecca's purpose, except to Rafe. She supposed if she was going to dragoon Shane into meeting her friend at the airport, she ought to make it clear.

She studied him as he made faces at the baby, then nuzzled Jason. All the MacKades were stunners, she thought, but there was something about Shane. Just an extra slice of charm, she supposed.

He had the looks, of course. That thick, midnight-black hair that he now wore in a stubby ponytail. The thin, bony, mouth-watering face, with its angles and planes, lush mouth, flashing dimple and thickly lashed green eyes. His shade of green was dreamy, the shade of an ocean at twilight.

He had the build—tall, rangy, muscled. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, long, long legs. It showed to advantage in jeans and work boots and flannel.

He had the charm. All four MacKades had it to spare, but Regan thought there was an extra dollop in Shane. Something about the way his eyes lingered on a woman, the quick, appreciative grin when he spoke to one, be she eight or eighty. That easygoing, cheerful manner that could explode into temper, then, just as quickly, edge away into a laugh.

He'd probably scare the hell out of poor, shy Rebecca.

"You're awfully good with him," she murmured.

"You keep making babies, honey, I'll keep loving them."

Amused, she angled her head. "Still not ready to settle down?"

"Now why would I want to go and do that?" He looked up from Jason, and his eyes danced with humor. "I'm the last single MacKade. I'm honor-bound to hold the fort until the nephews start springing up."

"And you take your duty seriously."

"You bet. He's asleep." Shane lowered his head and kissed Jason's brow. "Want me to put him down?"

"Thanks." She waited until Shane had Jason settled in the antique cradle. "Rebecca's expecting me. I wasn't able to catch her before she left for the airport." Frazzled all over again, Regan ran her fingers though her hair. "The baby-sitter canceled, Rafe's in Hagerstown getting building material. Cassie's got a full house over at the inn, Emma's got the sniffles, and I just couldn't ask Savannah to help out."

"Last time I saw her, she looked ready to pop." To demonstrate the condition of Jared's wife, Shane made a wide circle with his arms in front of his flat belly.

"Exactly. She's too pregnant to drive a three-hour round trip, and with a furniture delivery being rescheduled for this afternoon, I didn't know who else to call and impose on."

"It's no trouble." To prove it, he kissed the tip of her nose. "I don't suppose she's as pretty as you, is she?"

Regan chuckled at that. "How am I supposed to answer that and not sound like a jerk? In any case, I haven't seen her in...five years, I guess. The last time was on a quick trip to New York, and she was hip-deep in some paper she was writing. She's four years younger than I am and has two doctorates. Maybe more. I can't keep up."

Shane didn't wince. He liked women with brains as much as he liked women without them. But he knew the old routine about smarts and wonderful personalities. He didn't think he was going to be picking up a beauty queen at the airport.

"Psychiatry and U.S. history for sure," Regan continued. "Kind of an odd mix, but then, Rebecca's unique. I remember she minored in some sort of complex math, and there was science, too. Physics, chemistry... she did postgrad work on that at MIT."

"Why?" Shane wondered out loud.

"With Rebecca it would be more a matter of why not. She's got what they call a photographic memory. Sees it, reads it, files it up there," Regan said, tapping her head.

"And she's a shrink?"

"She doesn't have a private practice. She consults, writes papers, lectures. I know she used to donate a day a week to a clinic. She wrote a definitive paper on... well, some psychosis or other. Or maybe it was a phobia. I'm a business major. Anyway, Shane—" Regan smiled brightly and patted his hand "—she's into parapsychology. As a hobby."

"Into what? Is that like ghostbusting?"

"It's the study of the paranormal. ESP, psychic phenomena, ah... hauntings..."

"Ghosts," Shane concluded, and this time he did wince. "Don't we have enough of that around here already?"

"That's the point. She's interested in the area, the legends. It's different for you, Shane," Regan hurried on, knowing her brother-in-law's aversion to local legends. "You grew up with it all. The Barlow House, the two corporals, the haunted woods. The whole idea of hauntings is one of the main reasons Rafe and I have been able to make such a success out of the inn. People love the idea of staying in a haunted house."

Shane only shrugged. Hell, he lived in one. "I don't mind all that. It's just when tourists want to go tramping around the farm that—"

The look in her eye stopped him, made him narrow his own. "She wants to tramp around the farm."

"She wants the whole picture, and I know she'd like to spend some time out there. But that's totally up to you," Regan said quickly. "You need to get to know her a little. She's really a fascinating woman. Anyway, I wrote down her flight number and so forth." Regan offered him a sheet of paper.

"You still haven't told me what she looks like. I doubt she's going to be the only woman off that flight from New York."

"Right. Brown hair, brown eyes. She used to wear it just sort of pulled back, or... hanging down. She's about my height, thin—"

"Skinny or slim? There's a difference."

"I guess more on the skinny side. She may be wearing glasses. She uses them to read, but she used to forget to take them off and she'd end up running into things."

"A skinny, clumsy brunette with glasses. Got it."

"She's very attractive," Regan added loyally. "In a unique way. And, Shane? She's shy, so be nice."

"I'm always nice. To women."

"All right, be good then. If you don't spot her, you can have her paged. Dr. Rebecca Knight."

Airports always entertained Shane. People were in just as much of a hurry, it seemed to him, to get where they were going as they were to get back from wherever they'd been. Everyone hit the ground running, loaded down with carryons. He wondered what it was about the places people chose to leave that didn't appeal enough to keep them there.

Not that he was against travel. He just figured he could get anywhere he really wanted to go by sitting behind the wheel of his pickup. That way, he was in charge of time and distance and speed.

But it took all kinds.

He also figured he could spot Regan's college pal-since she was a woman, and he knew women. She'd be in her mid-twenties, about five foot five, skinny, brown hair, brown eyes, probably behind thick glasses. From Regan's brief rundown, he didn't imagine Rebecca Knight had a great deal of style, so he would look for a plain, intellectual type, with a briefcase and practical shoes.

He loitered at the gate, eyeing a pair of flight attendants who were waiting for a change of crew. Now that, he mused, was a profession that drew pretty women. It almost made a man feel there'd be some advantage in being stuck in a flying tin can for a few hours.

As passengers began to pour out of the gateway, he judiciously shifted his attention. Businessmen, looking harried, he noted. The suit-and-tie brigade. No amount of money could convince him that it would be worth wearing a suit for eight to ten hours a day. Nice-looking blonde in sleek red slacks. She gave him a quick, flirtatious smile as she passed, and Shane pleased himself by drawing in the cloud of scent she left behind.

Pretty brunette with a long, ground-eating stride and big, wide gold eyes. They reminded him of the amber beads his mother had kept in her good jewelry box.

Here came Grandma, with an enormous shopping bag and a huge, misty-eyed grin for the trio of children who raced up to hug her knees.

Ah, there she is, Shane decided, spotting a slump-shouldered woman with brown hair scraped back in a frowsy knot. She carried an official-looking black briefcase and wore thick, laced shoes and square glasses. She blinked owlishly behind them, looking lost.

"Hey." He gave her a quick, flashing smile, and a friendly wink that had her backing up three steps into a frazzled man lugging a bulging garment bag. "How's it going?" He reached down to take her briefcase and had her myopic eyes going round with alarm. "I'm Shane. Regan sent me to fetch you. She had complications. So how was the flight?"

"I—I—" The woman pulled her briefcase protectively against her thin chest. "I'll call Security."

"Take it easy, Becky. I'm just going to give you a ride."

She opened her mouth and made a squeaking noise. When Shane reached out for her arm to reassure her, she gave him a solid thwack with the briefcase. Before he had decided whether to laugh or swear, he felt a light tap on his arm.

"Excuse me." The pretty brunette cocked a brow and gave him a long, considering study. "I believe you may be looking for me." Her mouth, which Shane noted was wide and full, curved into a dryly amused smile. "Shane, you said. That would be Shane MacKade?"

"Yeah. Oh." He glanced back at the woman he'd accosted. "Sorry," he began, but she was already darting off like a rabbit pursued by wolves.

"I imagine that's the most excitement she's had in some time," Rebecca commented. She thought she knew just how the poor woman had felt. It was so miserable to be shy and plain and not quite in step with the rest of the world. "I'm Rebecca Knight," she added, and thrust out a hand.

She wasn't quite what he'd expected, but on closer study he saw he hadn't been that far off. She did look intellectual, if you got past those eyes. Rather than practical shoes, it was a practical haircut, as short as a boy's. He preferred hair on a woman, personally, but this chopped-off 'do suited her face, with its pointy, almost foxlike features.

And she was probably skinny. It was just hard to tell, with the boxy, shape-disguising jacket and slacks, all in unrelieved black.

So he smiled again, taking the long, narrow hand in his. "Regan said your eyes were brown. They're not."

"It says they are on my driver's license. Is Regan all right?"

"She's fine. Just some domestic and professional complications. Here, let me take that." He reached for the big, many-pocketed bag she had slung over her shoulder.

"No thanks, I've got it. You're one of the brothers-in-law."

"Yeah." He took her arm to steer her around toward the terminal.

Strong fingers, she noted. And a predilection for touching. Well, that was all right. She wouldn't squeak, as the other woman had—as she herself might have a few months before, when faced with a pure, unadulterated male.

"The one who runs the farm."

"That's right. You don't look much like a Ph.D.— on first glance."

"Don't I?" She sent him a cool sidelong look. She'd done a lot of mirror-practicing on that look. "And the woman who is probably even now hyperventilating in the nearest ladies' room did?"

"It was the shoes," Shane explained, and grinned down at Rebecca's neat black canvas flats.

"I see." As they rode down the escalator toward Baggage Claim, she turned to face him. Flannel shirt open at the collar, she noted. Worn jeans, scarred boots, big, callused hands. Thick black hair spilling out of a battered cap, on top of a lean, tanned face that could have been on a poster selling anything.