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against his skin and lure him back.

      “Torie.”

      “No,” she whispered, flattening against him. “No, don’t leave me.”

      “Torie, we have to stop.”

      “No.” She shook her head, her eyes tightly closed, as though that would make his common-sense thoughts go away.

      “Yes, Torie. We have to stop.”

      She still pressed against him, her face to his chest. Her sigh was deep and heartfelt and he began to stroke her hair. In moments, she was asleep.

      He held her there, taking in her fresh scent and her soft feel. An emotion swept through him and he wasn’t sure he knew exactly what it was—but it touched his heart. He knew that. A part of it contained a tug on his sensual responses, but there was more. He felt the warmth of affection, the strength of protectiveness, and he couldn’t stop looking at her and how pretty she was.

      Still, it was all crazy. He’d been in love and it never came to anything good. It usually meant a certain type of heartbreak. It had been a good five years since he’d even chanced it, and he’d vowed never to let it happen again. So he was okay. He was protected, inoculated against the disease. He wasn’t going to worry about it.

      But he was going to enjoy this. This, he could handle.

      So he sat there and held her and waited for her to wake up. And he thought about his situation.

      Why was he here? What exactly did he want out of all this? He wanted to save Shangri-La. That was it. He wanted his home to stay in the family. And since he was the only real Huntington left, that meant he wanted to keep it himself.

      He’d tried to talk to Marge about him becoming caretaker while she went off and did what she felt she had to do, but she didn’t want to hear about it. Marge wanted money. She wanted enough cash in hand to leave the country and live on for the rest of her life. If she could get that from any of these people she had gathered here, she would be gone like a flash. And he just didn’t have that kind of a bankroll.

      So what were his options? Few and far between—not to mention, weak. If the fortune-hunter crowd was right and the Don Carlos Treasure was hiding on the estate somewhere, things would be different. But he didn’t believe that for a minute. His father’s suicide note had been stark and emphatic. He thought the treasure was cursed and he wanted it at the bottom of the sea. Marc had no doubt his father had done what he said he would do.

      So why was he helping Torie? Why was he letting her dream? Maybe because her dreams connected with his own in an odd way. She wanted to prove her father didn’t steal the treasure. He wanted to know what had actually happened. She wanted to clear her father, he wanted to exonerate his own. And maybe help to fix something that had haunted his family—if it could be fixed.

      And that was why he wanted to help her find the journal. Who knew? There might be something written in there that could clear up a lot of questions—and put some ghosts to rest.

      But that was a pretty slim thread to put his hopes on and he didn’t really expect anything even if the journal was found.

      He looked down at Torie’s pretty face, her lashes making long shadows on her cheeks as she slept. He had to smile. To think that chubby little girl throwing apple cores on his car had grown up to be something like this—and possibly his only hope at getting to the truth. That made his grin wider.

      Still, he wasn’t sure about her. There was a huge element of distrust in his gnarled soul. He’d been lied to one too many times. He didn’t trust anyone and, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit she hadn’t proved herself at all. She’d just become so appealing to him that he was willing to give her a pass—for now.

      Wasn’t that it?

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