by J. Kenner
Her book had fallen to the floor when she’d opened the window, and now she picked it up again, her fingers tracing Hale’s image on the cover. She still couldn’t believe he had been flirting with her, and the memory of their afternoon together was intoxicating.
She brought herself back to reality with a shake. At the moment, Hale wasn’t the man of the hour; Leon was. In fact, Leon was the man of the less-than-half-an-hour, and Tracy really needed to get her butt in gear if she was going to get dressed in time.
She might have suddenly become the Belle of the Ball, but that didn’t change the fact that she was as nervous as she could ever remember being. To soothe her nerves, she punched the play button on her CD player, and the room immediately filled with the sounds of the surf beating against a beach. For as long as she could remember, she’d loved the ocean—the expanse of it, its depth, its mysteries. Listening to recorded surf wasn’t the same, but it was better than nothing. And at the moment, she needed all the security blankets she could find.
Bolstered by the soothing sounds, she sat in front of her vanity and started to tackle making herself presentable. After doing her hair—a massive undertaking—she spent twenty minutes trying on every dress in her closet, with and without her grandmother’s belt. In the end, she decided for basic black. Cool, sophisticated, slightly elegant.
After much internal debate, she ruled out the belt. For one, it just didn’t do anything for the outfit. For another, she was a grown woman. She’d found her confidence now, hadn’t she? And listening to the CD had calmed her nerves. Surely, she could go out for the evening without a security blanket.
She took another sip of wine. Instead of the belt, she’d rely on liquid courage.
At last dressed, she sat on her grandmother’s pink chaise and focused again on her historical romance novel. Or at least the cover. She’d bought it for the story, but right now, she was more interested in the half-naked medieval lord on its front than the words that were on the pages.
Hale groaned as Tracy’s fingers played across the cover of the book. She wasn’t caressing him. Not really. But even so, he shivered from the thought of her fingers touching his flesh so intimately.
The look on her face was unmistakable. He’d seen it on dozens of women, all of whom had ended up in his bed.
Lust. Desire. A sensual hunger.
When he saw it, he wanted to leap for joy. Without question, Tracy wanted him, and the realization pleased him tremendously. Sure, the knowledge that she was attracted to him benefited his mission, but his joy stemmed from more than that. More than ego, too. Quite simply, he was attracted to the girl. He wanted her. And he’d hoped that she wanted him back.
To now know for certain that she did . . . Well, his body swelled with relief—and anticipation.
Then the truth bonked him on the head: she didn’t actually want him. She wanted the sexy, buffed-up image he portrayed. And if her expression was any indication, this wasn’t the first time she’d looked at his picture that way.
He remembered her reaction when they’d met on the set. Pleasure, surprise, and definite familiarity. And later, in the coffee shop, when she’d asked about his life as a cover model.
He’d been wrong when he’d told Elmer Tracy didn’t know him. She did. And she’d had a crush on him just like so many of his fans did.
She desired him, and she had the belt.
Which meant he wasn’t falling head over heels for a mortal after all. It was the belt that was making him feel this way.
Closing his eyes with relief, he leaned against the trunk of a majestic oak tree. Thank Hera. All that touchy-feely angst, all his raging emotions. They were an illusion, nothing more. Tracy wanted him—she’d wanted him since before he saw her. And it was because Tracy had Aphrodite’s girdle that Hale wanted her right back.
She’d put a spell on him, entrapped him in a web of ancient magic. Never in his whole life had he felt so relieved to be the victim of an enchantment. He wasn’t actually feeling something for a mortal; he was simply under her control.
His mouth curled into a grin as he considered his predicament. A man under an enchantment couldn’t be held responsible for his actions, could he? A man under an enchantment had guilt-free carte blanche to bend to the will of the woman who’d cast the spell. In this case, he’d heard the woman in question say she wanted a fling. A wild, hot, steamy fling.
And that’s exactly what Hale had planned. After all, his mission required a seduction, and Hale wasn’t the type to turn his back on a mission. For the good of the cause, he was more than happy to make a few sacrifices.
No strings. No guilt. No funky, inexplicable emotions tugging at his gut.
Just him, Tracy, a very good time, and some feelings that—thankfully—would disappear the moment he completed his mission and got Aphrodite’s girdle back.
Ding-ding-dong-dong! Dong-dong-ding-ding!
The annoying doorbell her grandmother had loved so much—an imitation of Big Ben—echoed through the house and Tracy sat bolt upright, guiltily throwing her paperback aside. Smoothing her skirt, she stood up, a little unstable after those two glasses of her favorite Chardonnay. Nibbling on her lower lip, she wondered how wrong it was to fantasize about one man while she waited to go out on a date with another.
Giving up on finding an answer, she rushed out of her room and down the stairs toward the entry hall. Mistress Bettina scampered out from the kitchen, her high-pitched bark echoing through the hall.
“Calm down, girl.” Tracy bent down and grabbed her collar. The little dog quivered with excitement; she pretty much lived for the door chime. Considering that Tracy’s first real date in months stood on the other side of that door, at the moment, Tracy knew exactly how Missy felt.
“Just a sec,” she shouted, then checked her reflection in the antique mirror that hung near the door. Not bad, all things considered. Thanks to the wonders of modern cosmetics and that cooperative salesgirl—not to mention her own American Express card—Tracy had managed a few minor improvements. She’d spruced up her basically boring face. As for her hair, there wasn’t much improvement in that department. Through liberal application of hairspray, she’d forced a few curls in her cursedly straight locks, but the odds of her new ’do surviving the night were slim.
Still, at the moment, she looked good. Not stunning. But good.
Hopefully, good was good enough.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled open the door, and there was Leon, his eyes warm and dreamy. “Hi.” She swept her arm back, indicating the entrance hall. “Come on in.”
Without saying a word, he followed her lead, stepping into the open doorway and then onto the marble flooring. He had the celebrity thing down pat: not a hair was out of place, not one single wrinkle marred his clothes.
Even though he looked good enough to eat, Tracy couldn’t say she’d entirely enjoy the meal. Her fantasies about Hale had ruined her appetite. Hale might be less famous than Leon Palmer, but a thread of something purely and totally male added something to him that Leon just couldn’t hope to attain. And right now, Tracy wanted a taste of it.
Leon cleared his throat. Tracy frowned, trying to get her thoughts under control. She was being silly, of course. She might imagine that Hale was standing right next to her, so close she could feel the heat from his body, but in reality, he was probably in some hotel, having drinks with a supermodel.
No, it was Leon—her date—who was standing in front of her looking like a dream. Leon, not Hale. No matter how many fantasies she might be having about that other, absent, man. Talk about your etiquette faux pas. Any minute now, Miss Manners, Emily Post, and Tracy’s grandmother were going to yank Tracy’s membership in the polite young ladies club.
With a frown, Tracy realized Leon still hadn’t said anything. Looking up, she watched as the dreamy expression in his face faded, only to be replaced by something. What? Surprise? Revulsion?
She backed away, unsettled by the harshness in his face, and
even more by the coldness in his eyes. The dreamy quality was gone, and he skimmed his gaze over her body. Hale had done the same thing, and the intense inspection had practically melted her on the spot. Under Leon’s torturous examination, all she wanted was to cover herself and run from the room.
When their gazes met, she kept her eyes wide open, fighting back the burning onslaught of tears.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” he said. Once again, his gaze darted down, scoping her from neck to feet. “I can’t go out with you tonight.”
Apparently, she hadn’t passed inspection. So much for a boost of belt-less confidence. “I see.” Screw Miss Manners; Tracy didn’t even try to fight back the note of fury that laced her voice. “Any particular reason why? My outfit not snazzy enough for you?”
She didn’t know what she expected to see on his face—shock? an apology?—but whatever it was, she certainly didn’t expect the befuddled expression that marred his usually perfect features.
“The outfit’s . . . okay.” He shrugged. “It’s not your clothes. It’s . . .” He stood up straighter, almost as if realizing he’d lost the upper hand and was fighting to get it back. “Look, Tracy. You’re a nice girl, but there’s nothing between us. Nothing at all. I’m not sure why I asked you out. Obviously I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I’ll see you at work.”
He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway and actually had the gall to turn back one last time to say. “And have a nice weekend.”
Nice? Nice? He actually expected her to have a nice weekend after he’d snubbed her for the second time?
She sucked in a deep breath, readying herself to let loose and scream until Leon tumbled backward out the door and down the porch steps from the force of her fury, but someone else got there first. A deep, guttural growl came from behind her, then seemed to rush past in a gust of wind.
Tracy jumped back, at first scared and confused, then jubilant as Leon stumbled over his own feet, then crashed down the steps, facedown on the walk. A bubble of laughter rose in her chest, and she didn’t even try to stifle it. It was mean, maybe—but at the moment, she didn’t really care.
Leon pulled himself up, then turned around, and she saw the blood dripping from his nose. “You bitch!”
Her laughter stopped, replaced by anger. “Me? You’re the one who begged for a second chance, and now you go and dump me. You’re the one who tripped over your own feet. I’ve just been standing here.”
“Something tripped me. Where’s that damn mutt of yours?”
“Don’t blame Missy for your clumsiness.” Tracy glanced around, but she didn’t see a sign of the fluffball. The dog must have scampered away after Tracy had opened the door.
“Well, something tripped me.”
“You’re a clutz, Leon. A clutz and a putz.” With that, Tracy gave herself a couple of mental brownie points, stepped backward into her house, and slammed the door.
Jerk!
Leaning back against the door, she wondered what the heck was going on. Leon had been so eager earlier, but now he was a cold fish. Just to be sure, she tilted her nose toward her armpit, but didn’t smell anything offensive. Just soap, deodorant, and laundry detergent. She might not be beautiful, but her dress was flattering and she’d been reasonably happy with her appearance.
Leon doesn’t know what he’s missing, she thought. A tear trickled down her cheek, anyway, and she brushed it roughly away.
Okay, so Leon ran hot and cold. She didn’t like it—heck, she didn’t particularly like him—but she could deal with it. What was really odd was that something truly had seemed to trip him. She’d felt that rush of air, then seen him stumble over . . . well, nothing.
Was her house haunted? Was Grandma Tahlula hanging around protecting her? She shivered, not sure she liked the idea of sharing the house with a ghost. Not even a benevolent one.
A loud report echoed through the marble and oak foyer, and Tracy jumped, thinking the noise sounded like a . . . sneeze? She swiveled her head, searching for Missy—the poor dog might be catching cold—but she didn’t see anything except Hale.
Hale.
She blinked, and when she looked again he was gone. Okaaay. She really needed to get her mind on something else. Clearly, she had Hale on the brain.
Shaking her head, she banished the foolishness. The house wasn’t haunted, but it was drafty. She’d probably left a window open, and a cross-draft gust of wind had burst through the open door.
Sure. Right. That had to be it.
There were no ghosts or guardian angels in this house. And now no boyfriend. Just her and these drafty old rooms. She was all alone, and she might as well get used to it.
With that thought, Tracy slid down the wall until her butt hit the cold marble floor. Then she gave in to the flood of tears.
Claritin, Sudafed, something. He really needed to get his allergies under control. Only pure luck had saved him—that and the fact that Tracy was too upset by Leon to wonder about why she was seeing things.
At the moment, though, pharmaceuticals were the least of his worries. Tracy was miserable, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Hale hated being powerless—hated it—and nothing in the world made him feel more useless than a crying woman. Especially when the woman in question was one he’d begun to care about. Even if the caring was an illusion, brought on by a magic belt.
Frustrated, he paced in front of Tracy, careful to tread softly so she wouldn’t hear him. Already, he’d almost given himself away: first when he’d rushed Leon, and then again when he’d materialized from that monster sneeze. He’d managed to catch the sneeze and disappear before Tracy got too clean a look, but he hadn’t experienced nearly as much restraint where Leon was concerned.
When he’d rushed the buffoon, he hadn’t meant to yell, but somehow the sound had just burst forth. He’d had to swallow it, ending up gurgling more like a strangled ferret than a righteous defender of the downtrodden. He hadn’t actually intended to bloody Leon’s nose, either, but considering the way the little worm treated Tracy, it was the least he deserved.
No, Leon’s injuries weren’t his problem. He was much more concerned with making sure Tracy was all right. At the moment, he wasn’t so sure.
She was still sitting on the cold floor of the foyer, her knees pulled up to her chest and her head bent over. He couldn’t see her face, but he could tell from the way her shoulders were shaking that she was crying.
The need to put his arms around her and rock her nearly overwhelmed him, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself. Instead of holding her, he sat on the tile next to her, hoping that somehow she’d feel he was there, even if she couldn’t really know.
Maybe someday he could truly be there for her. Until then, this would have to do.
After a few more heaving sobs, Tracy lifted her head. Black mascara tracks snaked down from her red, puffy eyes. She sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand as she pulled herself up to lean against the wall.
“Get a grip, Trace,” she whispered.
He isn’t worth it, Hale thought, wishing he could squeeze her hand.
“He’s not worth it,” she said to herself.
Hale smiled invisibly.
After a few minutes, Tracy pulled herself up and headed down the hall.
For the briefest of moments, Hale wanted to call it a night; but he couldn’t leave Tracy alone to fend for herself. Allowing himself a single moment of hesitancy, he followed Tracy up the stairs into her bedroom.
First thing, Tracy headed for her bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She looked as miserable as she felt, and she hated that even a man such as Leon would have that kind of power over her.
The cold water wasn’t making any progress with her mascara-induced raccoon eyes, so she ended up breaking down and going for the full treatment, taking off her makeup with cold cream and a warm washcloth. Washing her face didn’t seem natural unless she followed it up with brushing her teeth, a
nd by the time she’d finished the whole bathroom routine, she was in her ratty old Disneyland T-shirt and ready for bed.
So what that it wasn’t even nine o’clock? She’d had a crappy day and she deserved to lounge in bed with another glass of wine and a good book. With Hale’s book, she thought, letting a tiny shiver of anticipation run up her spine.
Leon was real, but as Melissa had warned, he sure as hell didn’t live up to his fantasy potential. So far, at least, Hale hadn’t let her down. Maybe she only had fantasies, but right then, her fantasies were beating the heck out of reality.
With a deep sigh, she headed out of the bathroom and into her bedroom. She turned on the lamp, poured herself one last glass of wine, then clicked on her ocean CD. Grabbing the novel off the chaise lounge, she dove into bed and slid under the covers. She plumped a couple of pillows to put behind her, then settled back, ready to spend a few delicious hours lost in someone else’s romance.
The story sucked her in, and after a few minutes, she was lost in the Middle Ages. No longer was she plain old Tracy. Instead, she was Ariana: the proud daughter of a besieged nobleman, forced to accept the help of her father’s enemy.
Especially considering the image on the cover of the book, she had no trouble imagining Hale as the hero—arrogant, proud, protective. Fiercely loyal to the woman he loved.
Using her finger to mark her page, she closed the book and took a sip of wine as she examined the cover one more time. “Why couldn’t you have asked me out instead of Leon?” she whispered.
Not that it would have mattered. She seemed to be cursed where men were concerned. If Hale had shown up at her door, tonight, Hale probably would have snubbed her, too.
She frowned, not liking that thought at all. Leon might recently have jumped up higher on her list, but it was Hale who had starred in her fantasies for a long time. And in those fantasies, he had always been the perfect gentleman. Well, maybe not entirely gentlemanly. She bit back a smile, remembering some particularly vivid fantasies.