The Spellbinder

by Iris Johansen

  “Sure.” Harris nodded. “You bet, Mr. Devlin.”

  “It’s not fair to keep him waiting,” Sacha whispered as Brody’s hand on her elbow propelled her toward the stage entrance. “Perhaps we should—”

  “No, Sacha, we are not inviting him to come in with us. Dinner is one thing, but I’m not planning a cozy social get-together this time.” He pulled open the door and stepped into the shadowy hallway. “They can all wait outside.”

  “No one is allowed here now without authorization.” A short, wiry man with curly red hair was hurrying toward them. “You can’t—” He broke off, an apologetic grin creasing his thin cheeks. “Hello, Mr. Devlin. It’s so damn dark in here, I didn’t recognize you. The manager is stingy as hell about the electric bills between engagements. Now, what can I do for you? I didn’t expect to see you here again after the closing last night.”

  “Hello, Billy.” Brody smiled with beguiling warmth at the man. “Sacha, this is Billy Bodeen. Sacha Lorion. Miss Lorion is very interested in set design, Billy. I thought I’d let her study the Camelot sets, if they’re still here.”

  Billy nodded. “The costumes and sets aren’t due to be packed and shipped back to New York until Monday. They’re all back in the storage room.”

  “Good. Then I’ll take Miss Lorion there to take a look. You just go on with whatever you were doing. We might be some time. Miss Lorion may become very involved.” Brody waved casually before pushing Sacha ahead of him down the hall. “In fact, I’m quite sure she will. Thanks, Billy.”

  “No problem,” Bodeen said. “Just remember to turn off the lights or I’ll be on the carpet with management.”

  “I’ll remember,” Brody said over his shoulder. His steps quickened as he strode down the hall with Sacha in tow.

  “Set design?” Sacha murmured.

  He shrugged. “Set design, dress design. It’s only a small prevarication.” They had reached a mahogany door twice as wide as an ordinary entrance at the end of the corridor. He paused with his hand on the knob to smile down at her with heart-stopping charm. “I did try to stick to the truth for the most part. I have every intention of making sure we don’t leave here for a long, long time.” He opened the door and stepped aside to let her precede him. “After you, love.”

  She cast him an uncertain glance before stepping before him into the large, cluttered room. The ceiling arched a good fifty feet above the dimness of the storage room and was illuminated by only two narrow windows high on the north wall. The early-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows like two golden beacons, dancing motes of dust bringing a deceptive aura of life to the bold bands of illumination.

  Sacha gazed around her with fascination as she took a tentative step forward. Secrets. Secrets revealed. Secrets kept. Painted background sets could be discerned in the dimness. Arthur’s tree, from where he had first spied upon Guenevere. The elaborate glitter of the two thrones might well be gold if one failed to look too closely. The battlefield tent from the last scene. The Sword Excaliber lying carelessly across the cushions of a stool.

  “Not so glamorous close up, is it?” Brody followed her into the room and shot the bolt on the door. “It’s all make-believe, Sacha.”

  There was a curiously somber note in his voice that made her turn and look at him. “Why did you bring me here, Brody?”

  “I thought it might amuse you.” He smiled crookedly. “And I remembered it had the required equipment for what you had in mind.” He crossed the room, a stream of sunlight through a high window tangling in his hair and setting it aflame. Then he was once again embraced by shadows. “Come here, Sacha.”

  Her eyes narrowed, trying to see him as she followed his voice from sunlight to shadow. “I’m coming. Where are you? I can’t—” She broke off as she caught sight of him.

  He was standing by a canopy bed hung with white velvet drapes and a coverlet of matching velvet. “You remember Lancelot’s tryst in Guenevere’s bedchamber, don’t you? Unfortunately poor Lancelot never got to use this bed before the guards arrived.” He patted the velvet counterpane. “It’s just as well; the mattress is hard as a rock. It didn’t matter because it was only for show anyway.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” She drew a quivering breath. “I’m afraid I’m too nervous at the moment to decipher obscure messages. You’ll have to speak more plainly if you want me to understand.”

  “It’s all for show. It’s make-believe.” He paused. “And so am I, Sacha. I’m not your brother, and I’m not King Arthur. I’m only an actor who probably has as little real substance as the sword lying over there on that stool. Maybe these props are more real than I am, because lately the only times I’ve felt alive were when I was playing a part.” He shrugged wearily. “I guess it’s the only place I feel I have real worth.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Sacha asked softly.

  A muscle jerked in his cheek. “Because you deserve better than me. Listen, nobody cared about me when I was a kid either. My life was a little like yours as far as that goes. My mother and father were both too interested in their careers to bother about a child. But I wasn’t like you. Instead of reaching out to the people around me, I withdrew into myself. Then I discovered acting and I withdrew into that. You think you know me, but you don’t. I’m not sure there’s anything to know. Sometimes I think I’m a ghost, a chimera composed of all the parts I’ve ever played. But you’re real, Sacha, and I don’t want to hurt you, dammit. Please. Change your mind.” His hands clenched slowly at his sides. “Because I don’t think I’ll let you go if we use this bed. I’ll keep taking until you get tired and send me away.”

  She stood gazing at him, her expression one of almost maternal tenderness. How little he knew himself, she thought. He said he wasn’t like Arthur, yet he was exhibiting a remarkably similar taste for self-sacrifice. She felt a sudden golden explosion of feeling that thrilled even as it frightened her. Oh, dear, not this too. Why hadn’t she realized that she loved him not as a brother but as the one man to complete her? She mustn’t love him like this.

  His stance was charged with tension. “Well?”

  She should run away. It would be the intelligent thing to do. They were worlds apart. He might never come to love her as she did him. Yet even as she gave herself this wise advice she knew she wouldn’t take it. A short time with Brody would be better than nothing, and when had she ever relied on logic instead of instinct? She took a step forward. “I don’t get bored very easily. I think that’s the sign of a boring person.” She tried to smile. “And I think chimeras must be quite interesting once you get to know them.” She plopped down on the bed and bounced up and down to test the mattress. “And this bed isn’t really that hard.” She didn’t look at him as she took off her jacket, slipped off her shoes, and began to unbutton her blouse. “And I think it’s rather romantic to be here on—”

  “No romance, Sacha,” he cut in harshly. “Sex. Don’t fool yourself it’s going to be anything else.”

  Her gaze lifted to his. “No illusions at all?”

  He started to shake his head, his expression strangely stern. Then, as he detected wistfulness in her, he stopped and said quickly, “Dammit, don’t look like that.” He sat down beside her and cupped her face in his palms. “Perhaps a few illusions wouldn’t hurt,” he said softly. “As long as we realize what we’re doing. What would you like to pretend, Sacha? What role would you like me to play?”

  The role of a man who would love her forever, she wanted to tell him. “I don’t care,” she said in a tone that was almost inaudible. “You’re a spellbinder in whatever role you play. You choose.”

  He bent slowly until his lips were only a breath away from her own. When he spoke, his lips brushed hers with a gossamer kiss punctuating every word. “Then I choose not to play at all. The spellbinder is on vacation.” His warm tongue lightly outlined her lower lip. She inhaled sharply and a throbbing began wherever his tongue touched her. Her lips felt suddenly full,
swollen, exquisitely sensitive. “This is only a man.” He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes was like the room around them. Sunlight and shadow, ghost and substance, an emptiness that overflowed and became … loneliness. “Make me real. I want to be real for you, Sacha.”

  “You are real,” she said shakily. “If you became any more real. I think I might melt into a puddle on this fine velvet spread.”

  His eyes suddenly twinkled. “I don’t think I have to worry about that. I’ve noticed you always have both feet on the ground.” He pushed her back on the bed. “A state I’m about to correct. That position might prove to be a bit inconvenient for what we have in mind.” He removed her shirt and bra, then looked down at her. “Lord, you’re pretty, love.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m no Dolly Parton. You always asked for women with large breasts when you called Marceline’s.”

  He lowered his lips to tug at one pert nipple. “I’ve changed my mind. Small breasts can be quite erotic when you add a certain dimension.” His hand cupped and squeezed rhythmically. “Sort of a do-it-yourself project.” Her breasts were swelling, firming, beneath his hands and mouth. She couldn’t breathe; she was almost panting for air as his teeth nipped at the engorged peak.

  He lifted his head, his eyes glazed and hot as he looked at his work. “And it definitely gives a man a certain feeling of accomplishment.” His hand moved down to unfasten her jeans. The zipper slid sibilantly, the sound sending a shiver through her. His gaze left her breasts and traveled up to study her face. “Are you excited?”

  She gazed at him helplessly. “Yes.”

  “How excited?” he asked. “Tell me.”

  She could scarcely speak, her throat was so tight. “I think you know.”

  He lifted her hips to strip off her jeans and the bikini panties beneath them before tossing the garments carelessly aside. “But it’s fun to hear the words. Haven’t you found that out?”

  “No, I’ve never—” She stopped. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Anything you like.” His palm teasingly rubbed the tight curls surrounding her womanhood. “This feels so good. I’ve just thought of another item of clothing I want you to stop wearing.”

  “Pretty soon you won’t have me wearing anything.”

  “Probably.” His fingers wandered down to stroke, toy, and rotate. The muscles of her stomach clenched, and she made a sound that was a half gasp, half moan. “But think how convenient it would be. You’d like it too. I’d make sure you liked it.” Two fingers plunged into the heart of her, and her body arched helplessly up toward him in a motion as old as desire. “Just think about it. We’d be walking along the beach, and all I’d have to do would be to pull you behind a dune and lift your skirt.” The rhythm of his fingers quickened. “And do this. It would be so easy.”

  “It doesn’t feel easy,” she gasped through clenched teeth. Shivers of fire were quivering through her.… She felt as if she were exploding, burning. She couldn’t think. Brody’s deep, mesmerizing voice was painting pictures that she felt as well as envisioned. Hot sun stroking her body, white dunes hiding them from the world. And the rhythm—“It feels … hard.”

  He stopped. “But good?”

  Her hips moved yearningly. “Yes.”

  “Roll over.”

  “What?” she asked vaguely.

  His hands left her and he stood up. “Roll over, love,” he said softly. “You’ll like this, too, I promise you.” He pulled his black sweatshirt over his head and threw it aside. He smiled coaxingly. “For me?”

  Who could refuse him when he smiled so sweetly? She rolled over on her stomach and felt suddenly very vulnerable now that she couldn’t see him. She heard the sound of his undressing and the deep harshness of his labored breathing. She could smell his musky maleness, but she couldn’t see him. “Brody?”

  “I’m here.” He was beside her on the bed again, his lips brushing the exact center of her lower spine. An excited shudder quivered through her. His palms began kneading the pert swelling of her buttocks. “You have a wonderful derriere. That first night I met you, I was thinking I’d like to see you like this.” His teeth nipped sharply at one rounded cheek. No pain, just a flicker of liquid heat between her thighs. “Do you like this?”

  “I’m not sure. I feel … helpless.”

  “Do you? In a moment I’m the one who’s going to be helpless. Part your legs, love. Let me come into you.” He was moving her, coming between her thighs, lifting her, invading her.

  She cried out in surprise, then bit her lower lip in annoyance.

  Brody stopped. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” It was true. Heat. Fullness. Not pain.

  “You’re so tight,” he muttered. “I didn’t expect … Tell me if I hurt you.”

  His hands slid around to cup her breasts in the palms, his thumb and fingers plucking at her nipples, his breath feathering her ear as he braced himself on his knees. “We’ll lie like this in the dunes and the sand will be warm and rough against you.” His tongue toyed with the lobe of her ear. “And I’ll be warm and rough inside you.” He plunged deep!

  This time she kept from crying out, but it was impossible to mask the betrayal of her body.

  He froze. “Sacha, my God.…”

  She was glad her face was hidden from his. “It doesn’t hurt.” Her voice was muffled in the pillow. “I like it.” She suddenly bucked upward, clenching around him. “Go on.”

  “Sacha.” Her name was a low groan. “Don’t …”

  She clenched again. “Go on!”

  He muttered something beneath his breath. “Dammit, Sacha.”

  She felt his shudder within her body. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “The hell it doesn’t,” he said thickly. “But not enough to stop me. Not now.” He drove forward and began a wild, tempestuous rhythm that rocked her to the foundations of her being. Her hands clenched into fists. She tried to help him, but his pace was too furious, too wild. Fullness. Beauty. Brody. Always Brody. Passion. Fire. Spellbinder.

  His breathing harshened above her until it was nearly a sob. “Sacha, I can’t wait any longer.”

  Neither could she. The spiraling tension snapped, exploding into a million sunlit shards. She heard Brody’s low guttural cry above her. He collapsed against her, his chest lifting and falling against her back, his words spaced by gasps that made his voice almost inaudible. “Sacha, I never felt anything like that before. You nearly tore me apart.”

  She laughed huskily. “I think you’ve stolen my line. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?”

  Brody stiffened against her. “That’s right, it is.” He moved off her quickly. “Turn over, dammit. We have some talking to do.”

  Eight

  Sacha sighed contentedly and then lazily turned over to look at him. How beautiful he was, she thought tenderly. His rumpled chestnut hair gave him an air of boyishness that was in strange contrast to the mature masculinity of his tough, muscular body. The bronze of his skin appeared much darker in the hazy half-light illuminating the room, and his eyes shone a more brilliant shade of blue.

  “I liked that very much,” she said softly. “But next time could we do it in a way that makes it possible for me to watch your face? I think I would enjoy that even more.”

  He muttered a low curse and jumped up from the bed. “What the hell would you say if I said no?” He strode over to the huge wardrobe trunk against the far wall and threw it open with barely contained violence. He jerked out a velvet surcoat in a shade of rich chocolate-brown and pulled it on. “What if I said I’d rather have you on your head or maybe—” He stopped and leaned his forehead against the side of the trunk. “Dammit, Sacha, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t important, and I knew you would feel guilty about making love to a virgin.” She smiled. “You’re far more noble than you think you are. And it wasn’t as though I were saving myself or anything. I’m merely very selective.”

  “And
so you ‘selected’ a man who’s been notorious for his sexual escapades since he was a teenager. Not very smart, Sacha. There’s no telling what I could have asked you to do.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t have done anything that would hurt me or that I wouldn’t have enjoyed.” She frowned. “I didn’t mean to complain before. You have a wonderful face, and I would have liked to watch your expressions, but if you really prefer to—”

  “Sacha, for heaven’s sake, be still.” His voice was muffled. “Now isn’t the time for you to …” He reached into the wardrobe and riffled through the costumes. “I’ve never even had a virgin. I didn’t think there were any over fifteen these days. I can’t think.”

  “It’s very foolish of you to be so upset. I didn’t know you could be this old-fashioned.”

  He found the garment he was looking for and jerked it from the hanger. “I’m not old-fashioned; I’m merely a little disconcerted.” There was a thread of indignation in his voice as he turned and came back toward her. “I’m not accustomed to situations of this type.” He stopped halfway to the bed as a thought occurred to him. “This should make us quits. You don’t owe me anything now. Even trade.”

  Her laughter rang out, echoing in the enormous room. “Oh, no, Brody. Not even at all. I told you my inexperience was not important. Our arrangement stands.”

  A flicker of emotion touched his face, which was a mixture of frustration, sadness, and relief. “Sacha …” He came toward her. “Sit up and let me put this on you.”

  She knelt on the bed and gazed at the loose sapphire velvet robe in his hand. “That’s Guenevere’s robe in the bedroom scene. She looked quite beautiful in it.” She slipped her arms into the wide sleeves, her fingertips caressing the white ermine trim that bordered the robe. “Blondes always look lovely in blue.”

  “Do they?” He fastened the ermine-covered button at her throat and arranged the shining bell of her hair to free it of the jeweled collar. “I think it looks better on you.” He stood gazing at her and felt a familiar tightening of his throat. Her eyes—clear, honest, and warm with humor and joy—gazed back at him. His hands moved from her hair to cup her face gently. “Sacha, Sacha, what am I supposed to do with you?”