Cast a Lover's Spell

by Claire Thompson

  When they’d finished their wild lovemaking, she had felt a great sadness fall over her like a net, but almost as soon as it had engulfed her, it was lifted and all she felt was a delicious euphoria—her body sated, her mind at peace. Now the sadness and confusion had returned—with a vengeance.

  She hadn’t wanted him to go at first—why not stay the night? Stay forever. But he’d needed to go, he’d told her, and as he’d fixed her with that mesmerizing dark stare, she’d succumbed to his magical suggestion. It was time for him to go and for her to sleep.

  Yet when he’d gone, it was as if she’d suddenly awoken from a dream. Unable to sleep, she had climbed out of bed, moving into the bathroom. She poured herself a bath and lit the candles around the tub. As she lay there, staring into the wavering flames, she tried to understand what had happened.

  Paul was the most amazing man she’d ever been with. She kept trying to compare him unfavorably to Greg in her mind and she kept failing, which only heightened her sense of guilt. Yet she couldn’t deny it. Paul had been so fun, so easy to be with. She’d felt so relaxed around him once she’d somehow gotten over the ambivalence of being with him at all—an ambivalence that had returned full force once he’d left her.

  But more than the ease she’d felt when they’d still been fully clothed, she had to admit it was the sex that still held her in a grip of fevered memory. Never in her life had a man touched her as Paul had. Up until Greg, she’d assumed she just didn’t like sex that much and hadn’t worried a great deal about it. When she had fallen in love with Greg, lovemaking had been sweet and sometimes passionate. She enjoyed being in his arms and she liked the feminine power of making him shudder and cry out her name in his lust for her.

  Yet if she were honest, sex with Greg paled into a mere whisper of sensation when compared with Paul Windsor. It was almost as if she’d been enchanted in his presence. Every fiber of her being seemed to be connected to him in some magical way. While she had lain with him, she had felt she could die in his arms and her life would be complete simply from having experienced his kiss. Now in the cold light of day with Paul’s dark lovely eyes no longer boring into hers, she realized it must have been her devastating need that had made her so open and vulnerable to him.

  Anne had soaked in the tub until at last exhaustion overtook her. Wrapping herself in a towel, she flung herself into her bed and fell into a troubled sleep, dreams laden with sensuality twisting into eerie nightmares, all of which thankfully ebbed away upon awakening.

  Anne stretched and sat up. She had to admit though her mind was not at rest, her body felt wonderful, as if each cell still recalled the euphoria wrought by his exquisite touch. Even now with guilt wrapping her like a shroud, she had to admit Paul was the most compelling man she had ever known. It was more than just his manly good looks, his liquid black-brown eyes and wide, sensuous mouth. It was more than his deep, beautifully modulated voice and that delicious English accent, or the way he seemed genuinely delighted by her. These things on their face might be enough, but it was more than that—so much more.

  It was the way he tilted his head toward her when she spoke, his expression one of interest and concentration. He was really listening to her, to what she had to say. He seemed to value her opinions and wanted to know all sorts of details about her life and work. His attention wasn’t patronizing or condescending, nor was it just a preamble to making love to her. He had really seemed to want to know her.

  Instead of her usual lazy bath, Anne took a shower. She made herself a cup of coffee. Just as she sat down to drink it, the intercom buzzed. It could only be Paul! She realized she didn’t want to see him. Or more accurately, her body was longing to see him, her nipples actually perking at the thought of him standing downstairs at her door, her pussy moistening in perverse anticipation. But her mind was not ready. How could she face him?

  She wasn’t ready for a relationship with another man—she might never be. She was still grieving the loss of her husband. Yet she knew if she saw Paul again, she would succumb to his magical charm. Even last night, when she’d planned to reject him, to push him away, to retreat, at each step somehow she’d been prevented. Her attraction to him must be so great she was unable to behave rationally around him. The only solution was not to see him.

  The intercom buzzed again. Ingrained politeness forced her to answer the call. “Yes?” she said into the box.

  “Good morning. Well, afternoon really.” Anne steeled herself to resist him. After a pause Paul added, “May I come up, Anne?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. Perhaps another time.” There was a silence while Anne realized what a cold bitch she must sound like to him. Here they’d made the most passionate love of her life the night before and she was sending him away with an “I have a headache” excuse. Yet she didn’t know what else to do. She felt certain if she saw him, her resolution would crumble like dust in his fingers.

  “Anne?” The single word was more eloquent with longing than any string of attempted persuasion would have been. Anne felt an actual physical pain in her heart as she took a deep breath. For a moment she wondered why she was clinging so to her role as inconsolable widow. Then the image of her dying husband just before he slipped into a coma flashed in her mind.

  “No, Paul. I’m sorry. I’m just not ready to see you. I have to sort things out.”

  The silence stretched into several moments. A secret part of Anne wanted Paul to protest. To tell her he loved her and would die if she didn’t open the door and give him immediate access to her body and heart. Yet she stood firm, her lips pressed together as she waited, suddenly wondering if he’d simply walked away.

  “I’ll be waiting.” The words were soft, even wistful. Then he was gone.

  ~*~

  How simple it would have been to enchant her. He was close enough, even with two stories separating them, to have magically influenced her sufficiently to get her to at least open the door. He knew once he saw her face-to-face, the magic would sway her completely.

  Yet he found he couldn’t conjure the necessary words to break her resolve. He didn’t want to steal her love or affections any longer. Though he knew it was absurd, the love he felt blossoming in his heart for the fragile, troubled girl had nothing to do with magic. It went beyond lust for her pink-tipped breasts, the curve of her soft thigh, those perfect lips parting to kiss him. It was more than her huge clear gray-green eyes that sparkled with a passion and fire he suspected at first and was confirmed when they’d made love. It went beyond his delight in her quirky humor, her sharp intelligence, her talent as an artist.

  What was happening to him? How was it possible he of all people found himself in this ridiculous position? Paul Windsor, sought by witch and mortal woman alike, did not fall in love. He loved the women he allowed to adore him after a fashion, but it was only a partial kind of love—a giving of his kindness, his body, his time, his gifts, but never his heart.

  He realized as he walked aimlessly through the busy streets of New York City, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans, he was hopelessly, pathetically in love. With a mortal. He fingered the red ribbon in his pocket, drawing it out to look at it.

  He had seen it lying on the floor beside her bed when he’d slipped away just before dawn—it must have fallen from her robe. Something had compelled him to take it—a remnant of her, a keepsake.

  After he’d sent her into a charmed sleep, he’d thought about staying the night but he had too much to process, too much to absorb. He had taken Anne under false pretenses, or at least magical ones, bending her mind to slip past her reservations and her fears. A part of him had hoped maybe it wasn’t the magic at all that had driven her but rather a genuine outpouring of real feeling on Anne’s part. Perhaps after all she would awaken in the morning and, even without the benefit of his spells, long for his return. She would greet him with joy, wrapping those slender, lovely arms around him, holding him tight as she whispered her undying love.


  Alas, that hadn’t happened. If he had to fall into this ridiculous pit called love, why couldn’t he have chosen one of the many women who would have given their eyeteeth for his affections? He had to fall in love with the one woman who would not have him.

  He went over and over every detail of the time he’d spent with the lovely young woman. He realized she was especially sensitive to his spells. She could almost sense his invasion of her private spirit when he had gently cast his charmed net over her. It was rare for a mortal to be so sensitive to the workings of his magic. Yet she was no match for it—easily swayed by his whispered suggestions to forget her fears, her guilt, her loss, her reservations, and simply open herself to him. It had never troubled him before, his use of magic to get what he wanted. Yet with her he found himself wanting more—wanting her passion freely given.

  Paul slipped into a seat at an empty table at an outdoor café. He was oblivious of the people around him, lost in thought. He had to pause a moment to remember where he was when the waitress asked him what he’d like. “A cup of tea. Earl Grey. A bit of lemon.”

  He thought back to their amazing night. When she’d straddled his cock, her hair obscuring her face as she leaned over him, panting and mewing as her body trembled toward orgasm, he’d had a flash of insight as her thoughts tumbled in sexual abandon around him. The woman had never orgasmed during intercourse.

  It was almost hard to believe such a beautiful, obviously passionate woman hadn’t achieved that kind of satisfaction, especially having been married to the supposed man of her dreams. Paul had known of women who didn’t orgasm during intercourse, but that, he knew, was because they weren’t with a lover who understood their bodies or bothered to take the time to make it happen.

  Most men, especially mortal men, were in a hurry. They wanted their satisfaction and they wanted it now. A woman became a means to an end, instead of the end in and of herself. Paul sighed, sipping the hot tea he hadn’t noticed the waitress bring.

  Paul realized with a sudden shock his life had been empty, like a vast desert of his own making. He’d held himself apart from others to avoid the pain of loss. Anne was like an oasis of utter sensual abandon and pleasure. He longed to return to its abundance, leaving everything behind, spending the rest of his life making love to her. Paul shook his head. This was absurd.

  Something was wrong with him. He was in infatuation, not love, probably made the stronger by her refusal to see him. Paul wasn’t used to challenges. Everything came very easily to him, and with his magic powers, there was very little he couldn’t get once he set his mind to having it. Yet he knew if he took Anne again by magic means, its meaning would diminish. Even though her passion and pleasure were real, he’d had to bend her will to his in order to allow her the freedom to express what she felt inside.

  He didn’t want that. With Anne it would never be enough. He had to have her completely or not at all.

  Paying for his tea, he wandered along the long city blocks, finding himself again near Washington Square. He looked up at her window but made no move to cross the street to her townhouse. Instead he walked to the park. He would just sit on a bench for a bit. Maybe she would come out to feed her pigeons. He wouldn’t approach her. He wouldn’t embarrass her by forcing his unwanted attentions upon her.

  No, he would just look at her, committing her beautiful features to his memory. If she saw him, he would turn away. He would not compromise her. He was too proud to be rejected yet again.

  “Get a hold of yourself, man,” Paul said aloud. He wouldn’t go to the park and sit mooning on a bench like some love-struck idiot. He would go see Amelia. She’d snap him out of this puppy love insanity.

  ~*~

  Amelia sat at her dining room table sipping coffee. A large spread was before her, including toast, bacon, scrambled eggs, smoked fish, fresh juice and pastries. As her butler showed Paul in, Amelia looked up and smiled. “Care for some breakfast, old friend?” Like many witches and warlocks, Amelia considered any time before noon the crack of dawn. This three o’clock breakfast was typical for Amelia, who would have already had her bath and perhaps taken a stroll on her grounds while her food was being prepared.

  Paul sat down at the table, helping himself to a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice mixed with ice-cold Champagne. He watched Amelia gracefully skewer some egg with her fork. Amelia had a huge appetite, though one wouldn’t know it from her figure. Unlike most witches, who chose to maintain a more youthful guise, Amelia preferred to present herself as a mature woman by mortal standards—perhaps fifty or fifty-five.

  Her olive-toned skin was smooth and flawless with fine smile lines at the corners of her large dark eyes and on either side of lips that curved naturally into a somewhat devilish smile. She was thin as a rail with no breasts to speak of, yet men young and old found her utterly captivating. Her silver white hair was cropped close to her small head and she usually wore lavish, long-dangling earrings and slinky designer gowns that showed off her angular, boyish figure and long, lean legs. She had the sheer style to carry off her unusual looks, as if she were the rule and everyone else the exception.

  “What’s the matter, Paul?” she finally asked, after having polished off a large cheese Danish. “You look like you’ve lost an old friend.”

  “I’ve lost a new one,” he answered ruefully.

  When he didn’t elaborate, Amelia said. “It’s that girl again, isn’t it? The one you wanted me to track for you in the orb?”

  Too miserable to deny it, Paul nodded. He waited for the barrage of teasing taunts as Amelia chided him for getting his heart tangled up with a mortal woman. Instead she was quiet a while. When she finally spoke she said, “I was in love once with a mortal man.”

  Paul looked up in surprise. Amelia in love? Impossible. She saw his disbelief and laughed. “Don’t tell anyone—I’ll just deny it. I met him in 1732 at the French royal court. You weren’t even born yet but I was already a seasoned witch with no excuse for such behavior. Gerard de Saint Marc was a high-ranking officer in Louis XV’s army and when I saw him standing there in his formal military uniform, his plumed hat by his side, I was smitten. It was that ridiculous thing you’ve heard tell of no doubt but never believed in—that thing called love at first sight.

  “So it was with me. Something connected between us as our eyes met. He asked me to dance and we were inseparable after that. We married within months and even now I cherish each day we had together.”

  “Amelia. You never told me. All these years I’ve known you and you never told me about the one man you loved?”

  She waved her hand dismissively, though her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. She laughed and shook her head. “It was centuries ago and I’ve loved men since then, just not with the same intensity, the same passion. When you feel you shall die if you have to spend another moment without him—when the world seems to be on hold until you are again in his arms…” She sighed and stared off into the middle distance while Paul marveled at her. To think of Amelia in love. And with a mortal.

  “How did he die? Did you spend his life with him? How did you explain your appearance or did you age along with him, adding wrinkles and gray hairs, letting your skin sag and your muscle separate from bone to give the appearance of aging at a mortal rate?”

  “I would have but I didn’t get the chance. He was killed in a military skirmish when we’d only been married two years. It took me a century to get over him and I promised myself after that, never again. A ridiculous waste of energy and pointless really. They wither and age so rapidly, why involve your heart?”

  She watched Paul, a knowing expression in her eyes. He looked up at her and said softly, “I’m afraid it’s already involved. But she wants nothing to do with me.”

  Amelia was speechless for a moment. Finally she sputtered, “Nothing to do with you. With Paul Windsor? What is she, blind? Or just plain stupid?”

  “She is neither. She is the most hauntingly beautiful, damnably stubborn mortal
woman I’ve ever met.” He sighed. “She’s a widow—her husband died eight months ago and she’s decided to assume the mantle of professional mourner. She’s lost her job over it. She spends her days feeding birds at a park. Though she would deny it, she takes a certain perverse pleasure or pride in her status as bereaved. I think on some level it gives her an out from the strictures of her life.”

  “Well, that’s not so unusual,” Amelia responded. “People often make marked changes in their lives when their spouse dies. Start a new career, move to a new place or, as you say, retire from this world in a way, as if a part of them died along with their true love.”

  “Yes, except I don’t believe he was her true love,” Paul said with more vehemence than he’d intended. Amelia smiled and started to speak but he stopped her with his hand held palm up. “No, I know what you’re thinking. I think I’m the one who should be her true love. Be that as it may,” Amelia arched her delicate eyebrows at this statement but didn’t interrupt, “this fellow was not the one. She is too young, too inexperienced, to realize it, but he didn’t love her. Not as she deserved to be loved. He didn’t appreciate her exquisite delicacy of feeling or her innate talent as an artist. He didn’t appreciate her body or her capacity for passion. He just used her. Took what he wanted and tried to mold her into something she was not.”

  “And you’ve known her how long to learn all this about her?” Amelia said archly.

  Sheepishly Paul admitted, “Just a day and a night.” Gathering force in his voice he went on, “But think back. Think back to your Gerard. One dance was all it took. For me it was the same. She looked up into my face with those eyes, the passion lurking beneath a sorrow that occupies too much of her heart, and I was captivated.”

  He fell silent, his throat suddenly thick with tears. Amelia put her hand gently over his. “Shall we look for her now? In the orb?” How had she known he now had something of Anne’s to use in the viewing potion? Wordlessly he reached into his pocket, withdrawing the small strip of red satin.