by Julia London
Rachel, on the other hand, was eager to try almost anything, reveling in the most intimate of acts, encouraging him with her voice and her body. His orgasms were seismic, like a meteorite crashing to earth, and that just made him want her all the more. So when she asked him what he was thinking, he felt himself get a bit red-faced. “What, wasn’t I listening with proper discernment?” he asked with a lopsided smile.
“No, you weren’t listening at all,” she said, playfully splashing him. “I asked you how you liked America, and you just grinned,” she said as she pushed herself up and reached over the edge of the tub for the champagne bottle.
“I adore America,” he said.
“Really?” she asked as she hoisted the champagne over the side of the tub and refreshed one of the four glass tumblers the corporate flat boasted. “I’ve known some Europeans who don’t care for it.”
“That’s what they say,” Flynn said, holding his glass out to be refilled. “They like to hate America, when really, this is where they’d all like to be. As for myself, I’m not afraid to say it—I like America, and I adore at least one American.”
Rachel smiled prettily and leaned up again. Flynn languidly watched her breasts rise from the water and float there as she put the bottle away. “And I like the U.K.,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re so compatible in so many ways.”
“Refreshing,” Flynn agreed, and chuckled when he stuck his big toe in between her legs and Rachel gave a little squeal. But her eyes lit up with pleasure, and she shifted slightly, forcing his toe to slip deeper between her legs.
“You’re a shameless tart, you know that,” he said, grinning wickedly.
“It’s all your fault, Mr. Oliver. A man is not supposed to know about toes . . . So if you like it, do you think you’ll stay?”
“If the rest of me is permitted to join the toe.”
“I meant,” Rachel giggled, “do you think you’ll stay in America?”
That stopped his toe’s exploration cold. Of course he’d thought of it, but he’d come to no satisfactory conclusion for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was his uncertainty of how Rachel fit into the museum scheme.
But he forced a smile to his face and shrugged his shoulders behind a sip of champagne. “I couldn’t rightly say, love. Why, have you an offer for me?”
She laughed as she idly made a mountain of bubbles between them. “Maybe.” she said diffidently. “I just wondered. Not that I’m expecting anything, you know, but . . .”
As her voice trailed off, Flynn sensed something, and put his glass aside, sat up, leaning forward to see her over the mountain of bubbles. “But . . . ?”
She looked up; the intense expression in her blue-green eyes pierced him clean through, so much that he almost reared back. An uneasiness cropped up in the pit of his belly, a certain signal of danger, but he held her gaze nonetheless—
“But . . . I am falling . . . have fallen . . . in love with you.”
The pronouncement so stunned Flynn that for a moment, he could not move, could not so much as draw a breath. He felt like a sodding idiot, an inexperienced fool. How could he have not seen this coming?
“Rachel,” he started calmly and quietly, but saw instantly that it was too late to salvage the moment, for she had seen and heard his hesitation and took it to mean her feelings were unrequited. Only nothing could have been further from the truth, really, and he was desperate to know how to say so without giving everything away, months worth of work, as she sank back against the edge of the tub, sliding down and down until the water was up to her chin, her face almost crimson.
“But hey, don’t let that get to you,” she said with a very uneasy laugh before he could muddle his way through this excruciatingly unpleasant moment. “I’m the type to fall in love with just about anyone,” she said, and he could hear the anxiety in her chuckle. “People, animals, plants,” she added with another panicked laugh. “I even had a bike once that I fell in love with. I named him Arthur—after King Arthur, of course—and I rode him around the grounds, round and round. But I was like, twelve or something, way too old to be in love with a bike.”
When Flynn didn’t laugh, she suddenly shot up out of the water, sent some of it slopping over the sides in her haste to get up. Flynn tried to reach for her, but she backed away from him, stood there naked with dozens of rivulets of soapy water running down her body. “Food, too. Remember chocolate? Now that’s love. And movies. I’ve seen Braveheart about ten times, did I tell you that? I love that movie.”
“Rachel, please listen, will you?” Flynn tried as she stepped over the tub and onto the small bathmat.
“Oh no, I’ve made you feel awkward. I’m sorry, Flynn, I was really just sort of kidding around,” she said, her hand flailing helplessly. “Honestly! I don’t expect you to say anything in return, and really, I thought you’d just laugh,” she said gaily, and reached for a towel, hurriedly wrapped herself in it, then struggled with the wet mane of hair down her back.
“It’s not that I don’t have feelings,” he tried in desperation, but thought it sounded terribly hollow. He stood up.
Rachel thrust a towel at him without looking at him, and honestly, for the first time, she seemed afraid to look at him. “Oh, I know,” she said. “It’s obvious you like me well enough, or we wouldn’t be doing this, right?” she said, and stepped to the sink and mirror, and focused on her hair, watching herself comb it . . . except that the mirror was fogged over and she couldn’t possibly see a thing.
Flynn wrapped the towel around his waist as he stepped out of the tub, then stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her. “I do adore you, Rachel. I do,” he insisted. “There are just some things I cannot explain, at least not yet,” he said, feeling fantastically phony for it.
“You don’t have to explain anything,” she said, and leaned forward to the mirror again at the same time she pulled her hair over her shoulder, forcing him to let go of her. She began to braid it.
“I’ve hurt you.” Stating the obvious made him feel like an ass.
“You haven’t!” she insisted in a high voice “Like I said, I didn’t expect anything in return. I was just . . . talking.”
“Rachel. Dear God, there is so much I want to say—”
“Oh stop, will you? You’re making this into a much bigger deal than it is, really,” she insisted with a laugh, and turned around, leaned up against the sink, smiling. A smile that came nowhere near her eyes. There was no masking the distress and humiliation he saw in her eyes, and he’d never felt like such a cad as he did at that very moment.
“Come on, Flynn!” she said, laughing again. “It’s not as if I thought this was going anywhere,” she said, motioning vaguely to the bathroom. “I mean obviously, you’re British, I’m American, we live thousands of miles from each other, our lives are very different—”
“But I thought we were entirely compatible. You said so yourself.”
“Phhht,” she snorted with a roll of her eyes. “Yeah, I did. But you know, the fact that we both like Coldplay does not mean that we are going to be a couple, right?” She stepped around him. “You took it too seriously. You know me, I like to talk. Chatter chatter chatter.” She opened the bathroom door; a rush of cold air hit him square in the face, sobered him even more. “Speaking of chatter, I’m going to have to run. I have to call some people tonight and make sure they’re bringing stuff to Thanksgiving. And a turkey. I really need to get a turkey.”
Flynn followed helplessly behind her, padding out into the bedroom and standing there like an idiot as Rachel found her clothes and began to dress, wishing he could think, could find a way to tell her everything. But his professional self convinced him not to say anything, not yet.
She chatted on about the turkey, but he was silently and fiercely debating what he should tell her—if he told her she was part of an investigation, he would tip his hand, and they might lose a very valuable link to solving it. He could not forg
et the job he was sworn to do, or the fact that he was breaking every law enforcement convention that he knew by falling in love with her. But that was the rub—he wanted to be with her, because he, too, had fallen in love, and God, he desperately wanted to say so.
Which left him standing there, wondering exactly what he intended to begin with—where had he thought this would all lead? Did he think he’d never have to face the truth? It was inevitable, and he was wholly unprepared to deal with it, bloody fool that he was. So he just stood watching miserably as Rachel dressed and stuffed her big bag full of her things that were scattered about, and when she turned to face him with that blindingly false smile, he opened his arms, wrapped her in an embrace. Rachel responded by pressing her face to his shoulder, and her body sagged against him.
“Rachel—”
But she suddenly lifted her head, stepped out of his embrace. “So you’re coming Thursday, right?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he said, trying to sound reassuring.
“Great!” she exclaimed. “I’ve really got to run.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and quickly proceeded to the door, her wet braid swinging above her hips.
He shoved both hands through his wet hair in despair. “I’ll ring you later, all right?” he called after her as she reached the door.
“Okay!” she said, and with a cheery wave, she walked out the door. “One o’clock! Don’t be late!” And the door closed.
Flynn stood there for what felt like hours, staring at that closed door, his hands on his hips, his mind racing badly, until he realized he was freezing to death.
Okay, so now she had finally reached that pinnacle of achievement, had performed that singular, crowning act that would forever label her a giant loser. It was unwritten rule numero uno, the one thing a girl never did unless she was a certified imbecile—never tell a guy you love him first.
She raced away from the Corporate Suites and into the oblivion of night, trying to outrun her humiliation. Naturally, she was stopped in her escape by a red light.
With a moan, Rachel laid her head against the steering wheel. “Idiot,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Did you really believe all that witchcraft stuff could change the universe? You’re still Miss Fortune.”
A honk behind her brought her head up—the light was green, and she threw the car into first gear, hit the gas, and hurtled through the intersection, made a sharp right, and turned into the lot of a small market. The sign said they closed at midnight—it was ten to. She grabbed her bag, dashed inside with the thing banging against her leg, then race-walked the aisles until she found what she was looking for.
Yes, the baking aisle, with every type of brownie mix known to man. With a box of extra-moist and fudgy Duncan Hines and a carton of eggs, she ran to the checkout, dug in her purse until she came up with the required $3.37, and slipped outside just before midnight.
At one-thirty, she was sitting in the floor of her living room, a freshly-baked pan of brownies in her lap and a fork in her hand. She was methodically eating the brownies between gulps and sobs of bitter, bitter disappointment.
In the middle of one particularly big bite, however, she spied the stupid spell book on a little occasional table in the dining room, and felt a hot rage wash over her. Damn Dagne and her witchcraft! No, no, that wasn’t fair. If Dagne jumped off a bridge, she wouldn’t necessarily follow—wait. Scratch that. She might. But the point was that Dagne hadn’t given her this false sense of confidence, she had given that to herself.
Witchcraft! What was up with that?
Incensed by her own stupidity, Rachel shoved the half-eaten pan of brownies aside, came to her feet, marched across the room to that ridiculous and pink spell book (who the hell put spells in pink leather?), and knocked it off the occasional table with an angry swipe of her hand. The book fell off and landed open.
“Oh please, I’m not falling for that again,” she said defiantly, but bent over nonetheless and peered down. It had fallen open to a spell designed to rid yourself of negative energy.
“Idiots. Whoever writes this stuff is an idiot,” she muttered, and hatefully kicked the spell book. It skid across the wooden floors, beneath the dining table and out the other side and came to a rest next to the hutch. It was, she could see, still open.
Cautiously, folding her arms defensively against her, Rachel walked around the table and went down on her haunches in front of the spell book.
Escaping Negative Energy and Reviving the Chakra with Positive Energy
Rachel squinted again, read the instructions. All she needed was a piece of lavender cloth—had that, hanging around her neck. And the herb anise, which she knew she had plenty of, thanks to Dagne’s spell shopping. Green tea, a bowl made of silver (she stood up, looked at the hutch. Yep, still had the bowl Myron had given her), and an amulet.
Well, hell.
Okay, she didn’t believe in witchcraft, and she would not be sucked into believing that it actually worked, thank you. But on the other hand, she had all the stuff, and she was wide awake, thanks to half a pan of double fudge chocolate brownies. It was just something to do until she was ready to go to bed, that was all.
Rachel picked up the spell book with two fingers and marched back to the living room to prepare the last spell she would ever, ever do.
That night, Rachel went to bed with a tummyache, having devoured the rest of the brownies, but having also swallowed down most of her humiliation. She fell asleep quickly, and was soon dreaming of a field of yellow flowers.
In her dream, she was wearing a long, flowing silk white gown like the damsels in distress always seemed to wear. As she walked through the field, every flower grew taller and taller, and as she touched them, they gave her positive energy. Rachel touched so many flowers, she was practically floating above earth, and was laughing as she went.
Then at the end of the field, she noticed a figure, and as she drew closer, she realized it was Flynn. Still wearing nothing but a cheap, flimsy towel.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rachel awoke with a start Thanksgiving morning with the sick realization that in the time it took to make a gigantic faux pas with Flynn, she hadn’t heard a word from Dad since sending him that e-mail. Was he coming?
She tried to call him, but there was no answer at either his penthouse apartment or his cell.
Dagne was the first to arrive with her so-called famous Brussels sprout and cauliflower casserole and found Rachel frantically picking up the clutter in the living room when she came in. But Dagne walked straight through to the living room and into the kitchen without a single word.
As it was unlike Dagne to do anything without speaking, Rachel followed her.
Dagne was standing in front of the fridge, a beer in hand.
“Hey,” Rachel said.
“Hey.” She took a big long swig of her beer, then put it down on the breakfast bar with a huge bang.
“What’s the matter?”
“Glenn.”
“What—did something happen? Is he bugging you?”
Dagne rolled her eyes, swiped up the beer, and took another long swig of it before answering, “Hardly.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Remember that date we had? You know, the night we did the spell? I thought it went great. I met him at Fratangelo’s, we had a couple of drinks, we went back to my place . . . and I haven’t heard from him since. Not a peep.”
“But that was only two or three days ago,” Rachel reminded her.
“It was four, thank you. I think he dumped me. And don’t try and talk me out of it. That asshole dumped me, I can feel it.”
“But what about the spell?” Rachel tried, in spite of having decided yesterday that it was, at least in her case, a bunch of hocus-pocus crap.
“I don’t know,” Dagne said, staring thoughtfully at the peeling wallpaper above the window. “I just have this really funny feeling that something isn’t right . . . Where’s Flynn? Is he coming?”
Rachel ha
d not told Dagne about her brush with stupidity yet, and quickly turned her attention to the potatoes on the stove. “Supposed to,” she muttered.
“Great. At least one of us is going to have a good time. I can’t wait to—”
“Hel-lo-oh!”
Dagne looked at Rachel. “Chantal,” Rachel said.
Chantal and Tiffinnae had come along with their five children in tow. Rachel never did get which child belonged to which woman, but after a lot of standing around in the living room, they began to disappear, one by one, out the front door. Neither Chantal nor Tiffinnae seemed to notice, as they were too caught up walking around and admiring Rachel’s things while Rachel pulled their very large and heavy cooler into the kitchen.
“Mind if we go upstairs?” Chantal shouted from the top stair.
Dagne opened the cooler, started sorting through. “Oooh, pumpkin pies. And look at this, a green bean casserole,” she said, her eyes getting wider. “Where’s the turkey? Who’s got the turkey?”
Someone was knocking at the door. Flynn. Please let it be Flynn. “I do. It’s in the oven,” Rachel said, tripping over Dagne in her haste to get to the front door. Nervously, she threw it open with a huge smile . . . but no one was there.
There was, however, the distinct sound of children giggling around the side of the house.
Rachel closed the door, returned to the kitchen to check the turkey while Dagne tried to fit all the food Chantal and Tiffinnae had brought into the fridge. Another knock at the door, and Rachel told Dagne to ignore it. “The kids,” she said.
But when Chantal and Tiffinnae finally came downstairs again, she heard Tiffinnae say, “Well, come on in, Jason. Was you just going to stand out there and wait for someone to figure out you was here?”
Rachel instantly came out of the kitchen. “Jason, I’m so sorry—I thought it was the kids again.”