By Magic Alone

by Tracy Madison

  My parents were doing their own thing tonight, but had suggested—via a voice mail from my mother in response to the message I’d left saying we’d come—getting together for breakfast in the morning. I had a sneaking suspicion that my mother assumed the friend I’d brought with me was either Kara or Leslie, because she specifically said, “We’d love to have breakfast with you girls.” This probably should have worried me. I mean, my parents generally don’t handle surprises well. But I found my curiosity outweighed my worry. After all, there was no guessing how the relaxed version of my parents would react.

  The cab stopped and Scot paid the driver. I’d reserved our rooms at the Luxor casino and hotel because my parents were staying at Mandalay Bay. Separate hotels had seemed smarter. This way, Scot and I would have a little distance from them, they from us, and the indoor walkway made it easy to go back and forth. Besides, I’d always wanted to stay at the pyramid.

  I’d visited Vegas once before, but the volume of the casino still shocked me when we entered. The jangle of the slot machines, piped-in music, and the grumbling roar of voices from a whole bunch of people created a cacophony of noise that was at once exhilarating and too much to take in.

  And just like that, excitement replaced fatigue. I said as much to Scot after we checked in and were headed toward the wall of elevators—or as the check-in agent called them, inclinators—that would take us to our floor.

  Scot shot me one of his sexy grins and my knees did their wiggle-jiggle thing. My God, would that ever stop? “Not tired at all, eh? Maybe we should get some dinner and hit the casino for a few games?”

  We stepped into the elevator, and Scot pressed the button for the twenty-second floor. “Sure,” I said, fighting disappointment. We were in Las Vegas. Of course he’d want to do something more than stay in and get room service. But that’s what I wanted. A quiet, calm night alone with Scot. “But give me an hour or so. I’m feeling a little dirty.”

  Oh. Wow. That hadn’t come out quite right, had it?

  His grin widened, but he didn’t use the opening to tease me. Which was also disappointing. The Scot from the other night would’ve in a heartbeat. Instead, he said, “A shower sounds good.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I meant,” I mumbled.

  Silence descended and neither of us broke it until we stopped outside of my room. His was a couple of doors down, so at least we were close to each other. He leaned against the wall and watched as I used my card key.

  “I’ll be back,” he said in a very good Arnold imitation. “In an hour.”

  “Yep!” I gave a little wave and almost fell into my room. As soon as the door closed behind me, I crumpled to my knees. Tonight was going to be a disaster. I knew it, but couldn’t put my finger on why.

  Well, it had something to do with Miranda. Everything had been fine between us until I’d brought her up. So he either disliked that I knew about her, or he disliked why I knew about her. Or, I supposed, both. Ugh. Why had I even mentioned the ghost? I should’ve waited until after I’d spoken with Verda. Now, I’d likely ruined the entire damn weekend. A weekend that was going to be my one chance to spend time with Scot without Leslie lurking across the hall, or me thinking about Jameson, or worrying about Introductions or soul mates or anything else. Yes, I was here for my parents, but I was also here, by no design of my own, to enjoy myself with Scot.

  I shoved my limp body off the floor, unpacked, and then took a quick shower. Thirty minutes later, I gave myself a narrow-eyed once-over in the mirror. My hair was loose and long, because Scot liked it that way, and I wanted to please him. For clothes, I stuck with the simple: loose black cotton slacks and a gauzy blue blouse that matched my eye color. A thin silver necklace, slender hoop earrings, sensible black flats, and a watch completed my ensemble.

  I looked, at best, okay. In the humdrum, nothing-special sense. But it wasn’t as if I had a wardrobe of sexy, slinky outfits to slip into. Everything about me screamed basic, including the clothes I wore. Which was my own fault. Even with my mother’s influence—or maybe, because of her influence—I’d never cared all that much about fashion.

  “Well, it will have to be good enough, won’t it?” I said. But it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

  I mentally ran through what I’d packed, and scowled. I had what I wore, an outfit that was almost an exact replica, except in different colors, a few pairs of jeans, a few tops, and a dress meant for my parents’ ceremony. Why couldn’t I be more like Leslie? She was always beautiful. Always sexy. She could walk into a bar wearing anything and have half the men there begging to buy her drinks. One flippy, flirty toss of her hair and a smile would draw the attention of every male in the room. It was easy for Leslie. She channeled sexy. I, on the other hand, channeled schoolmarm.

  Maybe it was a mental thing. I dug deep, in search of my inner vixen. Mimicking Leslie, I batted my eyelashes at my reflection, smiled, and gave it a go with her flippy hair toss. My hair slapped against my right cheek, several strands twisted in my earring, my still-damp-from-mascara lashes left a sticky blob of black beneath my eyes, and my front teeth were now smeared with raspberry-blush lip gloss. Lovely. Rather than bringing my inner vixen to the surface, I’d summoned a seizure victim.

  I repaired the damage, all the while doing everything I could to ignore the insane desire to be someone else. I’d always liked who I was. But now, practical and rational didn’t seem so hot. It felt boring and nondescript. Flat and unappealing. The compulsion grew as I stared at my reflection, as my self-confidence plummeted. Damn it! Why couldn’t I be someone else? You know, just for the weekend.

  Two distinct voices sounded off in my head. Sort of like the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil voice insisted I could be someone else, that all I had to do was use the power of the journal. The angel’s voice was softer but no less insistent. It stated loud and clear that magically altering anything with Scot would only result in unhappiness. That at the end of everything, nothing that might happen, nothing he said or did, would be real. And yeah, the angel—damn her—was right.

  Strangely, I found I didn’t care. I was in Las Vegas with a beautiful man. A man who melted every bone in my body with the barest of touches, the smallest of glances. Hell, even when he was angry, my attraction for him sizzled. The simple scent of his damn jacket had almost put me over the edge, so yeah, regardless of what might happen after this weekend, I wanted—no, I needed—to be more than myself, to experience more than I ever had. Every woman deserves one magical weekend in her life, right? One weekend of craziness. So what if mine took some real magic to accomplish that?

  I glanced at my watch, saw I only had a few minutes before my hour was up, and raced to the journal so fast I nearly tripped. I grabbed one of the pens the hotel supplied, whipped open the journal, and wrote instinctively, tossing every iota of rationality to the wind.

  Between now and my return to Chicago, I will feel sexy, beautiful, desirable, and seductive.

  From the second I open the door tonight until the minute

  I step off of the plane at home, everything about this weekend will be—

  Three firm raps sounded, waking me from my haze. I started and my pen skidded along the page. Crap! Scot was here. But I hadn’t finished. I needed to finish.

  “Just a second!” I called out.

  My skin tingled as if I stood at the edge of the ocean and the spray of waves was misting over me. Energy rippled from my fingertips, heating my skin and the air. I tasted the sharp tang of magic on my tongue, felt the power with every breath I took. My hand trembled, my fingers tightened around the pen. I tried to focus, tried to remember the enchantment I was going to cast.

  But couldn’t. “Everything about this weekend will be . . .,” I whispered. Wonderful? Amazing? Well, yeah, but those words weren’t enough. They were too vague. I needed to be specific. Otherwise, I could have an amazing weekend with a friend.

  “You okay in there?” Scot called from the other side of th
e door. I recognized his anxiety, but didn’t understand why. It had only been a minute. Two at most.

  The energy swirled and bobbed and stole my breath. But then, as if someone pushed the pause button, the momentum ceased, waiting . . . waiting for me to finish the wish. It was an odd feeling, this absence of movement. It left me off balance and uncomfortable, because while the pressure, the vitality of the power remained, it existed without flow.

  What did I want from this weekend? My soul answered instantly. Passion. I wanted to experience passion, and I wanted to experience that with Scot. True, unadulterated, blood-pumping, sweaty, all-consuming passion. And then, when I got home, I’d do whatever needed to be done. Once I had more information and could make a decision based on facts. But that . . . Well, I didn’t have to think about that now. Right now, all I needed to do was complete my wish.

  Scot knocked on the door again, harder and more insistent. “Julia? I’m getting worried out here. What’s going on?”

  “One more minute, Scot. Sorry! I’m . . . ah . . . putting my shirt on.”

  The energy grew hotter, teasing over my skin like a lover’s caress, reminding me to get on with it. I bit my lip and scrawled one word: passionate. Which finished my wish, so it read, “From the second I open the door tonight until the minute I step off of the plane at home, everything about this weekend will be passionate.”

  The pause button released and movement returned. Magic, potent and electric, pushed against my skin, raising the hairs on my neck, my arms, my entire body. A numb, knotted-up ball unraveled from somewhere in the center of me, and tiny explosions of sensation erupted all at once. I pressed my lips together, muffling the moan of pleasure that escaped. This—dear God, this wasn’t like any of the other wishes.

  I dropped the journal and the pen and gripped the bedspread with both hands, squeezing tight, hanging on while my body vibrated. My head tilted back and another moan came to my lips, begging to be released. I felt everything. My blood flowing through my veins, my heart beating in my chest, my breaths panting in and out of my lungs, the sensual glide of the air along my hot skin. It was a level of awareness I’d never before had, and it was exquisite. It was terrifying. It was something dormant coming to life: the power of me. Of being a woman. A sexy, alluring, desirable woman. A woman who craved to be touched.

  I kicked the journal under the bed and bolted to my feet. I ran to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright. I flipped my hair and smiled, and this time . . . this time, the result was definitely that of a vixen wanting to play.

  This time, what I wore had nothing to do with my sex appeal. I had never, in my entire life, seen myself as beautiful, as sexy, as desirable, as I did at that second. I wanted to stare at myself, dissect the reasons why, because truthfully . . . I didn’t look all that different. Same hair, same clothes, same body, same girl.

  But I was different. And there was absolutely nothing to dissect. It was magic, and I had three days to enjoy this woman before the other woman, the boring one, returned. I lifted my chin and smiled again. Oh, yes. This was going to be so much fun.

  Scot pounded on the door again, and I remembered why I’d cast this wish in the first place. I was at the door as fast as my legs could carry me. I opened up and did the flippy toss, and I gave him the smile and said, “Why don’t we stay in and order room service?”

  He blinked. His gaze sought my face and eased down my body all the way to my toes, and then back up. Those firm, straight lips I loved kissing slid into a slow, lazy smile. My spell worked! Desire burned low in my belly, and images of all the delicious things we might do to each other whisked into my mind. I opened the door wider, making room for him to enter.

  And then he laughed. Laughed! “We’re in Vegas, Julia! You seriously want to stay in our first night here? Come on . . . let’s go get dinner. I’m starving.”

  Well, shit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The magic from the spell laced around me in an intricate weave, like millions of invisible spiderwebs gathering on my skin, tightening with every step, every breath, as Scot and I made our way through the casino. Instead of feeling restrictive, the sensation added to the energy zipping through my blood. It was powerful. Almost addictively so.

  The signs of my spell’s success were everywhere. People removed themselves from our path, giving us room to pass without our having to alter direction. Interested gazes followed our movements in the type of awe usually reserved for celebrity sightings. One man tripped over his feet, another dropped his drink before it reached his lips, and yet another received a well-aimed punch in his arm from the woman standing beside him. Probably his wife or girlfriend.

  It was liberating. And I would’ve enjoyed the process a hell of a lot more if it weren’t for one thing. Or, rather, one man: Scot. He appeared to be completely unaffected by the magic.

  He walked next to me, but he wasn’t really with me. He didn’t offer any sidelong glances or smiles. He didn’t rest his hand on the small of my back, and other than asking if Mexican food sounded good, he hadn’t said a word. Not one. It was frustrating to the nth degree. Especially because I wanted to drag him to my room and rip every article of clothing off of him. Or his room. Either would do. Not only were my hormones out of control, but Scot looked freaking amazing.

  He didn’t require magic to ooze sex appeal. His black slacks hung on his rock-solid frame as if they were professionally tailored, but they were off-the-rack. He’d teamed the slacks with a white button-down shirt worn beneath a cobalt blue V-neck sweater, the top several buttons of the shirt left undone. The clothes, along with his rough-shaven jaw, dark eyes, and the air of cool confidence he carried, created a hot and sexy GQ vibe. Simply speaking, I was on fire and melting fast.

  We entered the restaurant and were seated immediately. Good thing, too, because I didn’t think my legs were going to hold me upright for much longer. Scot opened his menu, so I did the same. But being all hot and bothered, I couldn’t settle.

  The Mexican-themed restaurant was all brushed aluminum, dark wood, leather, and glass. These design elements, along with a huge bullfighting mural on the back wall, gave the establishment a fun and funky aura. “This place is fantastic,” I murmured.

  “Yes, it is,” Scot said without looking up.

  I rolled my bottom lip between my teeth, wondering if my spell had somehow managed to have the opposite effect on him. Perhaps he now found me revolting. Which, I guess, wouldn’t be that far off from how he’d originally seen me. But I thought we’d moved on from that.

  I hoped so, anyway.

  Our waiter stopped at our table. His gaze landed on Scot first. “My name is Chet. And it will be my pleasure to . . .” Chet’s narrow jaw clenched when he switched his attention to me. His body straightened. He blinked several times and a cloudy haze dripped into his eyes. In a higher, almost squeaky, pitch, he continued, “Chet. My name is Chet. And it will be my utmost pleasure to serve you tonight. Would you like something from the bar?”

  “I . . . uh . . . I think I’ll try this raspberry tequila drink,” I said. Chet nodded without dropping his eyes. It was flattering. It was also slightly disconcerting. “Oh, and a water. Please.”

  “It will be my pleasure to bring you those drinks,” Chet replied earnestly. His blond, shoulder-length hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones. “My utmost pleasure.”

  “It’s my pleasure to be served by you,” I quipped, trying to make light of his studied appraisal. Chet didn’t crack a smile but continued to stare. The flattery became uncomfortable. “Shouldn’t you write my order down?”

  “Yes! I will do that!” Chet flipped to a new page of his order pad, but his hand jerked so hard the pad flew out of his grip. He nearly stumbled in his haste to retrieve it. “Okay. Write it down,” he said, his pen poised above the pad. “Write your order down.”

  But he didn’t. He kept staring at me with bunch
ed-together eyebrows and a blank, vacant expression that clearly stated he’d already forgotten my order.

  Scot coughed to draw the waiter’s attention. “The lady would like the raspberry tequila drink and a water. I’ll have a Dos Equis Amber. And bring us an order of nachos.” Scot spoke in an authoritative manner, but he wasn’t unkind. Just firm. “Can you do that for us, Chet?”

  “Y-Yes. Of course.” Chet scrawled the order and then offered a faint, bewildered smile. “Sorry. I’ll put this right in.”

  As soon as he disappeared, I breathed a sigh of relief. Be careful what you wish for, right? “That was odd,” I said. “Maybe it’s his first night on the job or something.”

  I mean, I knew the deal, but Scot didn’t. For some reason, it seemed important to rationalize Chet’s behavior for Scot’s benefit.

  Scot chuckled. “Our waiter is besotted with you, Julia. You made him nervous.”

  I fluttered my eyelashes. “And what about you, Scot? Are you besotted with me? Do I make you nervous?” Oh, hell, no. I hadn’t just said that, had I?

  “Not nervous,” he replied. “But you confuse me. I think I have you figured out, and then—” A sigh pushed out of his lungs. “What was going on in your room tonight?”

  “What do you mean? I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but it wasn’t that long. Just a few minutes, right?”

  “There was something . . . Lights flashed under your door. Your voice sounded off. I thought that maybe—” Scot lifted his shoulders in a barely discernable shrug, and the muscle in his arm pulsed. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. What did you think?” Flashing lights? I hadn’t noticed. Though I’d been a bit preoccupied with the unexpected surge of passion rippling through my body.

  “That maybe Miranda followed us to Vegas and was in your room. I don’t know that much about her, and I’m sure she’s harmless. But I was worried.”

  “Nope. If Miranda is here, I haven’t sensed her.” Which, you know, made me rather happy. What with the plans I had in mind for me and Scot, I didn’t need an invisible spectator. “I was running late. That’s all.”