Cast a Lover's Spell

by Claire Thompson

  “Well,” he admitted. “I don’t have anything actually. Not yet.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Sheepishly Paul admitted, “I don’t know.”

  “So you don’t know her name, you have nothing personal of hers for me to use, yet you come to me and ask me to find her in my orb. I may be good, Paul, but I’m not that good.” Amelia Chevalier was renowned for her skill with crystal orbs. She could locate a person within the magic orb, tracking their movements, viewing their past, their present and sometimes a bit of their future as well. Though as she cautioned those who used her services, the future was only a possibility—a potential easily affected by the slightest change in the present.

  Paul stood in front of one of Amelia’s beautiful crystal balls, this one about two feet in diameter, resting on a dais in a large airy room of her spacious home in New Rochelle. There were dozens of other orbs placed about the room, each one covered in a satin cloth. The room retained the sweet, slightly acrid scent of her viewing potions, which she brewed to assist in the effectiveness of the orbs. It was into these potions a bit of the person in question’s personal effects would be added. In this way she could home in on the essence of the soul, reading their secrets as well as their activities.

  When Paul had decided to go see Amelia, he hadn’t admitted the reason to himself. It had simply been a while since they’d seen one another. She always cheered him with her sharp tongue and clever wit. Amelia liked to embroil herself in intrigue and mortal affairs. He would get her to tell him of her latest escapades in the halls and bedrooms of power.

  Yet when he’d arrived at Amelia’s the hour before, he hadn’t asked about her latest adventures at all. He’d dived right in, blurting, “I want to find out about a particular mortal woman I saw in the park yesterday. I need to learn about her. Can you find her for me in your orbs? Can you tell me who she is?”

  After her lecture about the absurdity of his request, Amelia had relented, wanting to help her old friend, sensing his need. She lifted the red satin veil from her most powerful orb. As Paul stood by, she dropped several crushed herbs and a bit of magical oil into a small cauldron that simmered on a low heat near the orb. As the sweet smell filled the room, she placed her hands on the black crystal.

  “Come here,” she said. “You place your hands here as well. We’ll try to draw the image from your thoughts. Close your eyes and concentrate on her. Imagine her face, her scent, any thoughts you might have pulled from her.”

  Paul obeyed, the image of the lovely young woman appearing easily in his mind’s eye. He saw the large, gray-green eyes, clear as one of Amelia’s crystal orbs. He saw the shiny, curling hair around the delicate face and the long, slender neck. He pictured her sitting on the bench in the park, recalling his one brief moment as their eyes had locked.

  The orb lightened from black to purple to gray as the witch and the warlock moved their fingers over it. Amelia whispered an incantation as Paul concentrated on what little he had to offer. The orb finally cleared and the image of a woman sitting on a bench appeared for a moment through a swirling fog.

  “That’s it! That’s her!” Paul shouted, dropping his hands from the crystal in his excitement. But as his hands fell away, so too did the image sputter and disappear, only a swirling pink fog now moving inside the darkening glass.

  Hastily Paul put his hands back on the globe but to no avail. Despite Amelia’s best efforts and Paul’s desperate concentration, she couldn’t get the image to return. Finally she stepped back and said gently, “It’s not going to work. I’m sorry, Paul. You need more than that to capture her in the orb.” Paul nodded his defeat as Amelia carefully wiped down the crystal ball with its satin coverlet before replacing it lovingly over the orb.

  She turned off the fire beneath the potion and said, “Let’s have a cup of tea, Paul. You can tell me about this mystery girl of yours. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re smitten. Smitten with a mortal woman.” She laughed, as if certain this were ridiculous. She had never known Paul to be smitten with anyone. As gracious, gallant, pleasant and sexy as he was, Paul Windsor did not get smitten. He was in control all the time and had been since she’d known him.

  “It’s nothing really,” Paul said once they were seated and with a wave of her hand, Amelia had commanded cups and a kettle to the table. “Just someone I saw in the park at Washington Square. There was something about her. Something fragile and vulnerable. She was in mourning. But it was more than that. I don’t know. Something about her eyes…”

  “So this is just another of your ridiculous charity cases. You finish with one and are off in search of another. Why don’t you just open a mission, for God’s sake? A home for wayward girls. You can ‘save’ each and every one of them, giving them the benefit of your advice, your charity and your cock.” She laughed gaily, enjoying the slight blush on Paul’s face.

  When he didn’t answer, she continued. “Why not just go back to the park, for heaven’s sake. Go there and wait for her. She probably lives nearby—”

  “She does. I followed her home.”

  “You followed her home?” Amelia burst into peals of laughter, which irritated Paul. “You followed her home?” she repeated. “Then, my stupid darling, you don’t need orbs to find her. Just go knock on her door. What in heaven’s name is the matter with you? Has this obsession addled your poor brain at last? Go find her. Say hello. You know that’s all you have to do to get them to spread their legs for you. Go find your mystery girl just like the mortals do it. Take a cab.”

  ~*~

  Anne’s heart began a patter in her chest. She sensed his arrival before she dared look up. His body cast a shadow over her cooing birds as he came up to her. “Hello,” he said in a rich smooth voice. “What a lovely spring day. I rather think I saw you here yesterday. Am I right?”

  Anne looked up. The sun was behind him, making him glow like a dark angel, his face hidden in shadow. His body was outlined in golden light, its strong, lean curves enough to make her mouth water. She swallowed. “Yes. I’m—I’m here a lot. The pigeons expect me, you see. I bring them bread just about every day. I know you shouldn’t feed them—they come to rely on you. But I like them, all fat and ridiculous, strutting around fighting for bread while trying to look dignified.” She laughed and blushed, looking away. She had promised herself if he came—not that she was expecting him to.—but if he came, she would play it cool, super cool, Ms. Cool, Calm and Collected. Instead here she was yakking on and blushing like an idiot.

  “Mind if I join you?” Anne nodded, moving over. That accent. The rich, rounded vowels and ringing tones of a pure English accent. Anne, like most American women, was a sucker for it. To think she’d run from him yesterday, assuming he was a jerk. Not that she had any intentions now either way…

  The man sat down. He watched the pigeons moving busily at their feet for a moment before turning to her, his smile dazzling. Anne thought if she hadn’t been sitting, her knees might have buckled. “I’m Paul. Paul Windsor.”

  “Anne.” Damn, what was her last name? Ah, yes. “Anne Wilson, er Kaliner. Well, my full name is Anne Wilson Kaliner. Wilson is my maiden name, you see. My mother didn’t give me a middle name. Said she hated hers and wasn’t going to saddle me with one. I always resented that as a kid though. I wanted a middle name like everyone else. I used to make them up—Anne Michelle, Anne Elizabeth…” Anne gulped and clamped her mouth shut. She had not said this many words in a row out loud in months.

  Greg wafted woefully in her mind, his face a mask of reproach. She looked down, guilt assailing her like a bitter wind as she let her hair fall over her face. Paul smiled gently at her. “I have somewhat the opposite problem. My given name is Paul Andrew George Herbert Bennington Windsor III. Rather too many names, wouldn’t you agree? I quite prefer just Paul Windsor.”

  Anne laughed despite herself. Greg’s image drifted to the back of her thoughts, nestling down for a snooze while she turned her full attention to
the man beside her. “So I take it you’re British nobility? One of those old families too pure to marry beneath them until you’re so inbred your mother is your aunt twice removed?” Anne brought her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  But Paul only laughed, his dark eyes sparkling as he tilted his head slightly. Jesus, the man was good-looking. Anne felt suddenly naked—exposed—as if he were looking past her face right into her head. She looked away confused, her cheeks hot.

  “May I?” Paul said, pointing toward the bag of old bread Anne was clutching in her hands, the pigeons forgotten.

  “What? Yeah, sure.” She held out the bag. As Paul took it from her, their fingers touched. Anne couldn’t help the intake of breath as skin met skin. She resisted a very strong impulse to grab his hand, to kiss his palm, to press it against her breasts…

  Paul reached into the bag and pulled out a piece of bread. He crumbled it and tossed the crumbs toward the birds. They crowded around him, cooing and chortling their thanks.

  Anne was glad for the distraction as she tried to pull herself together. Her heart was racing, her palms were sweaty, she felt dizzy. Maybe she was getting sick. That must be it. She would go home, lie down and let whatever had come over her pass. She would get away from this way-too-sexy guy before he made her behave like a crazy person, instead of the widow in mourning she in fact was.

  Paul lightly touched her arm. “Don’t go,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

  “How did you know—?”

  “I have a sense about people. Don’t run away, Anne. Not when we’ve just met.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know me. I’m a mess. My husband died and I’m not interested in other men and—”

  “I know.”

  “You know?” She looked at him quizzically.

  “Yes. I know you have lost someone dear to you. It’s in your eyes.”

  Anne sat back, gratified on some level. So her mourning did show then. She was a good and faithful widow.

  “When did he die?” Paul asked gently.

  “September of last year. Eight months ago.” Tears closed her throat as the image of Greg during his last days filled her mind. Almost as if he too could see the image, Paul’s face expressed a grave sympathy.

  “You miss him.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, feeling on safer ground now, almost enjoying the part of bereaved widow.

  “But life goes on. He would want you to keep living. To do more than throw old bread to birds each day.”

  Anne looked up, affronted. “You don’t know what I do. I do plenty more than that.” As he waited, a half smile of those sensuous, perfect lips, Anne struggled with what to say. “I was an investment banker. Just like him. I worked sixty-hour weeks. I didn’t have time for much else but I loved it.”

  “And now?”

  “Well. I, uh, I quit. Just before they fired me, I quit.” She looked up at him, her expression rueful for a moment until they both laughed.

  “Okay. So you retired we’ll say for the sake of argument from the grueling world of high finance. And now you spend your days…” He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  “Well, I, um. That is. I…” Anne blew a breath from pursed lips. “Look. I don’t even know you. Who are you to cross-examine me like this?”

  “My apologies. I have no right whatsoever. Please forgive me.” He paused and then said, “We can fix that, you know.”

  “Fix what?”

  “The fact we don’t yet know one another. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? I could pick you up. I presume you live near here?”

  Anne started to automatically refuse. She didn’t go out with strangers. Especially not now as she had no interest in other men. She hadn’t dated another man in five years. She had no intention of beginning now. Even if Paul George John Ringo whatever his name was turned those dangerous dark eyes on her as if he were casting a spell…

  “I, yes. That would be lovely. Seven o’clock.” She told him her address, feeling as if she were enchanted, saying words she hadn’t prepared, giving him information she hadn’t meant to share. And yet at the same time it felt perfectly right. Of course she wanted to have dinner with Paul Windsor. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t?

  Chapter 3

  Anne jumped as the intercom buzzed. She glanced at herself in the hall mirror by the front door as she pressed the button. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Yes?”

  “Hi. It’s Paul. Paul Windsor.”

  Jesus. This was it. Her first date in forever. Anne’s stomach hurt with anticipation. What in the world would they talk about? What did she know about this guy? He could be a stalker, a serial killer, a crazed psychopath intent on kidnapping her and keeping her caged in a dungeon for twenty years. And who would miss her? Who would know she had disappeared?

  Anne realized with a start that though her silly imagination was certainly working overtime, the fact of the matter was she was going out with a virtual stranger and not a soul in the world knew where she would be.

  What had made her say yes? She had been about to refuse but something had changed her mind. It was almost as if she had been possessed for that moment. Now she regretted it. She would just go down and tell him it had been a mistake, she was sorry, maybe another time… Resolutely she walked down the two flights of stairs to the outer foyer on the first floor of the brownstone.

  Paul was standing just inside the door. She stopped at the bottom stair, struck anew by the magnetism that seemed to emanate from the man. He had no right to be that handsome. She tried to look away from those dark, dangerous eyes but found she could not.

  She could feel her nipples stiffen. Awkwardly she put her arms in front of herself, clasping her hands. She would let him down gently. Surely he would understand she wasn’t ready. As he stood smiling at her, she mentally rehearsed some polite, vague excuses in her head but what came out of her mouth was, “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I can’t.” Ah well, it was the truth anyway, even if she’d failed to couch it in diplomatic terms.

  She waited for his protests, his insistence, his demands. Instead he said softly, “I understand. It’s too soon for you. Why don’t we forget dinner? Perhaps a walk in the square? Maybe a cup of tea in your rooms?”

  A cup of tea in her rooms. How quaint. She glanced at him, relieved he wasn’t going to press the issue, though curiously deflated he’d given in so soon without a fight. Wasn’t she worth fighting for? Paul smiled broadly and Anne blushed, ducking her head. Damn! It was almost as if the man could see inside her head. What was he grinning about?

  A walk would be lovely. Safe enough. Then I can decide from there.

  The words landed in her head and she was reasonably sure she hadn’t put them there. Yet, they did make sense. A walk around the square—what was the harm? They would be in a public place and she could plead a headache if she felt uncomfortable. Paul was standing quietly, awaiting her decree.

  He did look very handsome standing there. He was wearing a pale blue button-down shirt of some very high-quality cotton—it looked soft as silk and Anne resisted a sudden impulse to run her hand down the fabric covering his firmly muscled chest. The shirt was tucked into black fine-spun wool pants that hung beautifully on his body, hinting at the masculine bulge between his legs without making it a focal point as the fabric draped elegantly over his strong legs. His shoes were a soft black leather, probably boots. She bet he had nice feet.

  “All right then. Just let me get my keys and I’ll be right down.” She turned away, walking up the stairs to avoid his penetrating gaze.

  They were silent as they headed toward Washington Square. As they passed a street vendor, Anne realized she was hungry. Since yesterday she’d suddenly had an appetite, though she couldn’t explain why. On an impulse she said, “Let’s get some hot dogs, want to? I know it isn’t a chic trendy café, but if you didn’t mind?”

  Paul laughed. “There’s nothing like a New York City street vendor hot
dog. I’ve been all over the world a hundred times over and nothing compares.”

  Anne grinned, pleased to discover he wasn’t pretentious as she’d feared he might be, despite the air of understated wealth the longtime rich seemed to carry about themselves.

  They sat on a bench armed with hot dogs and soda cans. Anne bit into her hot dog, the chili spilling messily over the sides. She couldn’t remember tasting anything so delicious in her life. She looked at Paul, who seemed to be enjoying his food as much as she was.

  When they’d finished and were licking their fingers with satisfaction, Anne said, “I forgot the bread for my birds.”

  “I think the pigeons will forgive us, don’t you? Looks like someone else has got the job this evening anyway.” He nodded toward an old woman. She was sitting on a bench, a bag of old bread clutched in her hands. She was muttering softly to herself as she crumbled bread over the birds. Her gray hair was thinning and wispy around her wrinkled face. Anne had a sudden, horrible feeling she was looking at herself forty years from now, still on the same bench, still mourning the loss of her husband, all alone with only the fat, stupid pigeons for company.

  She stood abruptly. “You know, I think I feel a migraine coming on. I do hope you’ll forgive me but—”

  Gently Paul took her hand, gazing into her eyes. “Don’t send me away,” he said simply. “Please. We’ve barely had a chance to get to know one another.” He looked so sweetly earnest, his expression as open as a small boy’s pleading for a new toy or some candy. Anne relented, unable to stop the small smile forming on her lips. What after all was the harm?

  Again words seemed to tumble into her brain—Some tea would be lovely. Yes. A nice cup of hot tea—she had a new tangerine herbal she’d been planning to try. Anne loved teas of all sorts and had a whole cabinet full of different varieties. And Brits loved their tea, didn’t they?