Cast a Lover's Spell

by Claire Thompson

  It was a strange feeling for Paul—to have been rebuffed and so quickly. He’d clearly read her thoughts to stay away. She’d threatened to hit him, for heaven’s sake, if he even tried to speak to her. Paul smiled, amused at the vehemence of her unspoken rejection but at the same time intrigued. Women did not reject Paul Windsor. Even witches fell prey to his inimitable charms. He wasn’t vain about it, but had simply come to accept his form and features pleased the opposite sex.

  Paul Windsor genuinely liked mortals, especially mortal women. Many of his brethren derided and scorned their non-magical counterparts—ridiculously short-lived with no ability to read minds, to weave magic, to cast spells. But Paul liked them.

  He had developed a hobby over the years—that of finding and nursing broken women back to health. He didn’t nurse physical wounds, but rather wounds to the heart. He truly loved women—he loved their bodies so soft and yielding, so sweet and delicate. He loved their underlying strength, appreciating how much more difficult it was for a woman to make it in just about every arena one cared to contemplate. Even in the supposedly enlightened United States where he’d spent the last decade, he saw mortal women were still discriminated against in a variety of subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

  Paul sought out women who had bought the messages bombarded at them by society—they were too fat, too stupid, too hopeless, to find true love. He found it a challenge to take these women and lift them up, courting them, loving them, empowering them, until they no longer needed him. Then he would gently reverse his spells, turning their attentions from himself to a deserving mortal man.

  Paul’s gift for reading minds and feelings was especially sharp, a natural gift he exploited and developed as he reached maturity. Within the magical community it was considered impolite to enter another’s mind but mortals were considered fair game. The community of witches and warlocks was very small compared to the mortal world. Less than fifty thousand still roamed the world. Conception was difficult and rare between magical beings. They lacked the fecund qualities of the short-lived mortals. It did happen, but only a handful of full-fledged magical babies were born each generation. Witches and warlocks could also be born to mortals, though this was rare, and unless discovered and mentored by one of the magical folk, they would live and die as mortals.

  Paul himself had been discovered by a warlock passing through his father’s stables in England in 1763 when he was only ten. Paul had become known, even at his tender age, for his unusual skill in calming and taming the skittish wild stallions his father would procure for eventual resale once they were broken in at his stables. Even the most seasoned trainers would sometimes give their most violent and difficult horses to young Paul. Unaware of the source of his gift, Paul was nevertheless able to subdue the wildest horses, calming them with his magic. Word spread throughout England of his unusual gift, most sought after in a land and time when horses were the primary means of transportation.

  Theodore Stuart, a warlock who resided in London during this time, heard about the boy and was intrigued. When he arrived at the Windsor Stables, a simple spell ascertained Paul’s magic potential. Theodore had taken Paul under his wing, teaching him the basic spells and incantations any warlock worth his salt must know. There were few witches or warlocks who could match Paul’s ability to see into the hearts and minds of others.

  What was in the heart of the woman bathing on the second floor of that narrow old townhouse? The image of those beautiful sad gray-green eyes continued to haunt him. He sensed something wild, something untamed, in the girl who reminded him of his beloved horses from long ago.

  Perhaps he would seek her out and charm her with magic. He would bend her to his will with incantations against which she would be powerless. Even as these thoughts drifted in his mind, Paul knew he would not. Somehow it seemed improper—unfair. There was something almost too special about her. To take her through trickery and magic would be like cheating.

  Turning away, Paul raised his hand toward an oncoming taxi. He barely noticed his ride through the city, barely recalled paying the cabbie, nodding toward his doorman or ascending his private elevator to the top floor of his apartment building. He was lost in a fog of daydream, mooning over a young mortal about whom he knew next to nothing.

  Paul laughed ruefully as he stared out at the New York skyline rising into a haze of smog. He knew he was acting like a lovesick schoolboy. The idea his heart had somehow been captured by the odd woman feeding pigeons in park was beyond absurd. She was not even a witch, only a pathetic mortal doomed to her few years of toil and misery before her frail body gave out.

  Yet now she was at the height of her beauty. He imagined her through the window of the brownstone into which she’d disappeared. In his mind’s eye he could see her lying naked in her bath, her breasts rising above the water, soft and round, the pale skin tipped with dark pink nipples, erect and begging for his kiss. He imagined the supple curve of her throat, the delicate skin flushed pink from the heat of the water as she soaked, her eyes closed, her thoughts wrapped around his, dreaming of him…

  Paul reached into his trousers, adjusting his rising cock as his phantom lover slipped from the tub to kneel naked between his knees, her soft, small hands leaving a trail of lust over his body as she lowered her sweet mouth to his cock…

  Paul shook his head and the girl evaporated like fairy dust. Paul Windsor did not fantasize or moon over mortal women. What was happening to him? Though he could wield powerful magic, he didn’t know what the future held. Would he cast a lover’s spell her way? Or had she unwittingly already cast one on him?

  Chapter 2

  Anne stared critically at herself in the mirror. She was standing in her bedroom, naked but for a towel wrapped around her head, her skin still pink from her second hot bath of the day. After the earlier bath she’d taken a nap. She had meant to start reading the new book she’d gotten out of the library earlier in the week but she’d been tired.

  Now it was dark out. She could go to sleep soon and wait for a new day, maybe a better day. Or just more of the same.

  “What have I become?” she asked the mirror. She ran her hands down her sides, tilting her head as she noticed the faint outline of her ribs. She was getting too thin, she knew. Food had lost its appeal but she knew she had to eat. She would get some fruit tomorrow, something enticing, and make a nice fruit salad.

  She continued to look at her naked body, turning slightly to see her profile. Though she was slender, her breasts were full and round with large well-shaped nipples. Greg had loved to play with her nipples, pulling and patting them, delighting as they rose like fat little gumdrops at his attentions.

  Anne knew she had a good body but it had never given her great pleasure. Her sense of worth was not derived from her looks, even though she knew men found her beautiful. Their attentions, while meant to be complimentary, usually ended up just making her uncomfortable.

  She had fallen in love with Greg precisely because he hadn’t been fixated on her looks. He’d barely noticed she was a woman at first or so he teasingly had claimed once they were dating. They had been partnered for an especially complex securities offering, she the junior partner assigned to assist him. He hadn’t put any sexual pressure on her as men so often did even in a supposedly professional environment. As they worked together, he had treated her as an equal, indifferent to her sex, more appreciative of her attention to detail and analytical prowess as they put the deal together.

  It was only afterward he’d asked her out and then only to celebrate the success of the deal, or so he had said. When they began to see each other outside the office, each step of the way he’d let her take the lead, never pressuring her, never forcing a declaration of love from her nor offering his own. He didn’t mind that she had never had close girlfriends. He didn’t think it odd that she didn’t yearn for babies or long to be married. He didn’t care if she orgasmed or not. He was happy with her just the way she was. Yes, he was the only man who had ever
understood her. Or, if he hadn’t understood her precisely, he hadn’t minded.

  Perhaps it was her upbringing in a strict, emotionally cold home that had impaired her ability to connect easily with others. She was an only child born to older parents. A rather unhappy accident, she would later think, as her mother never seemed happy to have her there. When she’d left for college, her mother immediately redid her room, putting all her things in a box in the attic. When she came back for winter break, she stayed in what her mother now called the guestroom. The point was not lost on Anne.

  Anne sighed as she unwound the towel, her hair cascading wetly to her shoulders. She turned away from the mirror. Now that she was out of a job, she no longer got up at dawn. She was lucky if she got up before noon. What was the point? She knew she was behaving like a depressed crazy person. She knew she probably should seek help. She had no support system. Her few friends from work had stopped coming around, never having been close to start with.

  Eight months was time enough to recover from her loss or so she guessed they must suppose. And if she were entirely honest, while she did still mourn his death and miss him deeply, what was going on now was less about Greg and more about herself. She seemed to have lost the ability to focus on anything for any amount of time. Really they were right to fire her—it was only through luck she hadn’t cost the firm money with her lack of attention and indifferent attitude.

  She thought about the man in the park—the handsome stranger. She recalled her orgasm in the tub after she’d practically run away from him. It had almost felt like he’d been in the room with her, watching her touch herself, those dark, hooded eyes glittering with unspoken possibility…

  Imagine how disgusted he would be if he knew she spent her days sleeping, lolling in the tub and walking aimlessly around Washington Square. Her whole world seemed to have shrunk to a few square blocks. She bought food at the convenience store or the deli on her block. She never cooked anymore, instead ripping open packages of prepared meals, reading as she ate, not tasting the food.

  What if she hadn’t left so abruptly? Would he have struck up a conversation? She imagined his voice—something deep and sexy to go with those dark eyes and that sensual mouth. Why had she practically run away? Did she regret it now? A foolish thought. She only had eyes for Greg, hadn’t she?

  Sighing, she pulled an old nightie over her head and crawled into bed. Tomorrow she would go back to the park and feed the birds. If she happened to choose the exact bench she had sat at the day before, it didn’t mean anything. She often sat there. If he happened to come along, well, it was a free country, wasn’t it? This time she wouldn’t let him force her away. She had as much right to sit there as he did, hadn’t she?

  Anne closed her eyes, letting the stranger’s handsome face float into her mind. If her fingers slipped between her legs as he bent to kiss her in her dreams, Anne didn’t remember it in the morning.

  She awoke to sun streaming through the window, bathing it in a lemony spring light. A walk in the park would be just the thing. He might be there, sitting on the same bench, waiting for her… For a moment Anne felt almost happy, the day seemingly ripe with potential.

  Then the censuring curtains lowered. “Anne Wilson Kaliner, what in God’s name has gotten into you?” she demanded of herself. Greg barely dead and here she was daydreaming about another man the second she woke. Feeling properly chastened Anne got up and dressed, made a cup of strong coffee and took a long look around her cluttered, dusty apartment.

  The shades in the living room were drawn. She surveyed the room with its boxes of papers cleared from Greg’s office still taking up an entire corner. Even after all these months she hadn’t had the heart to look through them. What was the point after all, except to remind her with each report and scribbled memo he was no longer there?

  Newspapers and magazines were piled on the coffee table in front of the antique overstuffed sofa Greg had bought at an estate sale when they’d first married. There were old coffee mugs here and there and a bowl with popcorn kernels covered in congealed butter in the bottom of it. A pair of her jeans lay crumpled in a corner from one evening when she hadn’t had the energy to move, falling asleep in front of the television with no one to wake her and guide her lovingly to her own bed.

  Anne realized she hadn’t really looked at this room, at the whole place, for quite a while now. There was a vase of dead flowers on a stand, the dried, wilted stalks settled in an inch of fetid water. Greg had been fastidious and by far the better housekeeper of the two of them. He would never have tolerated the state of disarray the place was in. She could almost hear him chiding her in that slow, teasing voice, “Why, Anne Kaliner,” he might say, “if you ran your portfolio like you’re running this household, you’d be bankrupt in a week.” For a fraction of a second she was glad he wasn’t there to say it—his constant comparisons of their private life to their work had sometimes grated on Anne. She felt a stab of guilt as she quashed this almost treasonous thought.

  Anne raised the blinds, allowing the sunlight to pour over the fine layer of dust covering the bookshelves and windowsills. All right then. She would not go to the park. Not until she’d straightened this place—dusted, mopped and vacuumed.

  She hauled Greg’s office papers to the guest bedroom, which also served as their home office, though they’d rarely been home enough to use it. No guest had ever slept on the futon sofa bed either. She would worry about that room later, she decided. Marching back to the living room, she removed the clutter, dusted the shelves and tables, vacuumed the throw rugs and washed the wood floors. She even wiped down the windows.

  Afterward she plopped down the couch, completely exhausted. Anne hadn’t done that much physical activity since she’d had to fetch and carry for her dying husband. After a rest however, she was ready to go again. Pulling on fresh jeans and a T-shirt, Anne went out to the fruit market and bought two bags full of fresh fruit—bananas, oranges, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries and a mango. She would make a fruit salad and have it for lunch along with a loaf of fresh bread she had bought as well.

  Once home again, she busily chopped and sliced, feeling better than she had in over a year. What was happening to her? What was this spark of happiness, this whisper of renewed life within her? It was a perfect spring day, after all. Perhaps her body was only responding on a primal level to the weather. She did tend to get depressed sometimes during the long winters, the leaden gray skies and bitter cold wearing her down.

  The image of the stranger drifted in her mind and she shook her head. This was not supposed to happen. It hadn’t been a year yet. She had been in love with her husband. She knew in theory one could not mourn forever but until yesterday, it had felt as if she would. The loss of her job the week before had seemed the final stroke, the final proof her new identity was to be cemented as the grieving young widow, falling into a decline as she fed her birds and read her romance novels, drifting through life, longing for the one man she had ever loved…

  Anne realized with a small, rather unpleasant shock on some level she found herself and her plight rather romantic. Like the great heroines of classic fiction, she would mourn her man for the rest of her life, never to find another to fill the hole torn in her heart by his loss.

  Greg would have laughed at that, she bet. To Greg and to all the world, Anne had always presented a different persona—a cool customer, a tough cookie. One had to be tough to make it in investment banking, especially as a woman. Anne knew what it took to make it—at least she used to. Suddenly she wondered if Greg had ever wished she was softer, less strident, less intent on proving she was just one of the guys. Sometimes she wanted to be, but she didn’t know how. Maybe she was more her mother’s daughter than she cared to admit.

  “Enough analysis,” Anne said to herself. “I’ve cleaned the place. I’ve made a nice meal. I’ve earned a trip to the park.” Smiling a little at her own foolishness, Anne stripped off her T-shirt, instead selecting a green s
ilk tank top, just the color of her eyes. Why not wear something nice? And why not a touch of rouge? Anne moved back to the bathroom, pulling out her makeup bag. She applied a bit of color and eyed herself in the mirror. Not bad for thirty-two. She brushed her lustrous dark brown hair, the sunlight catching glints of red in the curls, which bounced back from her brush, refusing to be tamed.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine Greg coming up behind her, pushing her heavy hair aside as he kissed her cheek. She opened her eyes, looking in the mirror as if she expected to see his blond head, his snub nose, his smiling eyes. Instead she saw the dark, handsome stranger behind her, his large hands closing over each shoulder as he bent to kiss her neck. Anne shivered, letting her head fall back. She could almost feel those hands gripping her, almost feel those lips grazing her skin, his lips parting, the nudge of teeth, his tongue gliding on her flesh as he licked up her neck, biting her earlobe, pulling her around to face him, pressing her to him so her breasts mashed against his strong, bare chest…

  Anne opened her eyes, turning abruptly from the mirror that revealed her too-bright eyes, her flushed skin, her nipples poking through silk. Her imagination was definitely working overtime. What she needed was some sunshine and fresh air. Armed with her bag of bread, she moved into the daylight, headed for Washington Square, pretending to herself she had no agenda.

  ~*~

  “Have you got something of hers? A bit of her clothing, a lock of hair? I need something more to go on, Paul. It’s quite difficult to just conjure her up out of nothing.”

  Paul nodded, feeling ridiculous. What had made him confide in Amelia anyway? Amelia was one of Paul’s oldest friends. She would tease him mercilessly if she thought his interest was any more serious than his usual meddling in mortal affairs. Not that this was any different, he told himself. The girl really did seem woebegone—a woman in need, lost and alone.