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Page 135
ries at the front and a long, low wing on each side.
Mike drove behind the house. When he pushed another button, a door in one of two smaller, matching buildings opened. He pulled the Bronco in beside a tiny car, roofless like an open phaeton. Abby was just beginning to realize that the desert cabin, with all she had considered to be the most modern of amenities, must have seemed primitive to Mike. What else could he achieve here with just a movement of his finger?
As soon as the Bronco was stopped and quiet, Mike turned to her. "We'll talk after dinner."
She tried to smile, but her stomach churned. What did she dare to reveal? And did their bond, which sometimes sent his emotions reeling through her, work in both directions, so he would know if she lied?
She composed herself as he led her into the house. The quiet in the entry hall was disturbed only by the ticking of a grandfather clock. Surprisingly, the place was permeated by the odor of something clean and pinelike, not the mustiness of a dwelling unused for months.
He gave her a brief tour of the house. Three farmhouses like the one her family had left in Pennsylvania would have fit inside. The downstairs front contained a parlor, living room, and dark-paneled office, all lit by wrought-iron chandeliers and matching wall sconces. The tile floor was strewn with colorful rugs. The furniture was of heavy, carved woodmuch of which Mike proudly admitted to having created himself.

 
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