The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept)

by McComas, Mary Kay

“You canceled everything for the rest of the week in your fax, remember?” She paused. “Or did I forget to tell you? It’ll all be rescheduled for next week.”

  “How dare you?” he shouted, outraged. “Who the hell do you think you are, marching in and mucking up my life like this? What gives you the idea—”

  “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Dunsmore,” she said, stopping with her foot on the next step and turning to face him. Lord, she had the longest, thickest eyelashes he’d ever seen. “What I’ve done is unsp-speakable, and I want you to know that I’m sincerely sorry.” The big, dark eyes were so compelling, he almost believed her. “I wish you could see this from my s-side, though. This is ... this is like my last stand, my final round, my ... my last chance to salvage the rest of my l-life. Don’t you think that I thought long and hard about this before I decided to do it? Don’t you th-think I would have much preferred to convince you with words rather than action? Don’t you th-think I wish you were a reasonable, compassionate man? Don’t you th-think that I know what’ll happen to me if this doesn’t work? If you still hate me on Sunday, I’m g-going to prison for the rest of my life.” She held her hands out to him, seeking his understanding. “But that’s what I’m doing, Mr. Dunsmore. I’m risking the rest of my l-life on the hope that there’s a touch of magic on this island for me ... and a spark of humanity in you. Because without one my life will have no purpose or meaning, and without the other it will have no value.”

  Payton knew he could be a little self-centered sometimes—all right, so he’d cut himself off from the rest of the world and stayed pretty much self-absorbed most of the time—but he could still remember fear and anguish when he saw it. They’d been friends of his once, before he’d allowed the cold numbness to settle in and take over his life.

  “Look, I’m sure you think that you have good reasons for what you’re doing. But it doesn’t matter how righteous your motivation is, holding me hostage is wrong,” he said calmly.

  “I know that,” she said, annoyed with his pontificating. “And I wouldn’t have d-done it if you’d showed the slightest willingness to understand my position. But you wouldn’t. You c-came here with your mind made up, and you weren’t listening to me. Well, I’ve got your attention n-now, don’t I, Mr. Dunsmore?”

  “All right,” he said, recognizing the truth of her words. “I admit that I wanted this island, and that nothing you said would have changed my mind. But I’m not as unreasonable as you think. I do understand your feelings about this place and ... and maybe we can work something out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I don’t know yet,” he said, but he knew her eyes were more radiant, dazzling really, when they weren’t protected by her glasses—almost the way diamonds sparkled brighter when removed from a jeweler’s display case.

  He was off track. What had he been saying? Oh, yes. “But we could go back to St. Peter’s Bay and discuss it. You have my solemn vow that I won’t take any action until we’ve come to an amicable arrangement. One we can both live with.”

  It was Harriet’s turn to question his mental stability.

  “I’m supposed to b-believe that? Your solemn vow?” she asked. She’d once pledged her devotion to the King of Endless Promises, and too late discovered him forgetful.

  “I am a man of my word, Ms. Wheaton,” he said. Granted, he’d been called a cold, hollow shell of a human being—but no one had ever labeled him a liar before. He was nothing if not honest, because there wasn’t anything he wanted bad enough to lie for and there was nothing he was afraid of losing by telling the truth.

  “Prove it,” she said. “Stay here and think up your amicable arrangement. And w-while you do that, I’m going up to take a hot bath. Excuse me.”

  “Harriet, don’t do this,” he called after her. “It’ll only get you into more trouble. Listen to me. I promise I’ll—”

  Her bedroom door slammed back the rest of his words. Temporarily defeated, he lowered himself to sit on the steps. “I th-think I’m in d-deep t-trouble,” he muttered.

  Four

  HEAVEN WAS A HOT bath with lilac-scented bubbles. The thought floated through Harriet’s mind on a hazy pink cloud, her body temperature somewhere between bone-shattering cold and warm goo. Her eyes were closed; her mouth was open, lips lax. She couldn’t tell if she was still breathing, and she didn’t really care.

  She smiled and slid down until she felt bubbles bursting under her chin. Did real criminals learn as much in prison as people who weren’t really criminals? she mused, thinking it a shame that it had taken her eighteen months of showers to give hot bubble baths their due. Bubble baths and open spaces without fences and quiet and sugary breakfast cereal and more than two pairs of shoes to choose from and the wind in her face and ...

  Her eyes popped open, and she slowly turned her head toward the door that separated her bedroom from the bath. There was silence, and then the noise came again. Whistling, soft and low. Someone was in her bedroom.

  “Mr. Dunsmore?” she called, holding her breath.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re in my bedroom.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Snooping through your drawers.”

  She frowned. “I’m glad to hear that you’re making yourself at home, but my room is off-limits, Mr. Dunsmore.”

  “So was my life, Ms. Wheaton, until you decided to kidnap me.”

  “I didn’t kidnap you. I—”

  “Yeah, yeah. No ransom. No demands. Face it, kidnapping is kidnapping.”

  “I’m as stranded here as you are until Sunday. Couldn’t we just say that I stranded us here?”

  “If that would make you feel better.”

  “Oh, yes. Much better.”

  “Then no. We’ll stick with kidnapping,” he said, abandoning his efforts to search her room quietly, slamming a drawer shut. “Which reminds me, what happens if something ... happens? Say, one of us gets hurt. Like you, for instance. Is there any way to get help out here?”

  “Is that a threat or are you trying to scare me, Mr. Dunsmore?” Her bath was turning tepid, and she shivered. She was losing her bubbles, too, she noted absently. “Or is it a test to see how serious I am about this and how well I planned for it? Or are you really worried about my safety and well-being?”

  “Oh please, Ms. Wheaton, I’m deeply concerned about your safety and well-being, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling at the don’t-make-me-laugh tone of his voice. She liked his quick, sarcastic humor. It meant he was intelligent and world wise, shrewd and clever. “Well, as it happens, Mr. Dunsmore, I did plan for such incidentals as illness and injuries. And should anything happen to me, I’ll save my last dying breath to tell you how to get yourself rescued. Does that make you feel any better?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, only half-attentive. There was a picture of her parents on her dresser. She might be thoughtful and quiet like her father, but she looked like her mother. The same dark hair and big dark eyes; the charmingly crooked smile. They shared the trim, healthy, robust look and ... there was a warmth and openness in their expressions that was uncanny.

  “Uh-oh. You’re being awfully quiet out there,” she said. “Have you found something that interests you?”

  “I’ll say. I had you pegged for a sturdy cotton girl, and here’s all these skimpy silk and lace underthings. My-oh-my, Ms. Wheaton. You’re just one surprise after another.” A brief pause. “If you’ve got a towel handy, use it.”

  “For what?”

  “Anything you want, but I’m coming in,” he said. And then he did.

  “Do you mind?” she asked, sinking lower in the tub and pushing bubbles in the most judicious directions. She glowered at him.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Carry on.”

  He opened her medicine cabinet and studied the contents; found nothing that grabbed his interest and moved on to her cosmetics. The whole inspection wouldn’t have take
n two seconds, but his eyes kept wandering to the big claw-foot bathtub and the flushed, rosy naked woman who lay just below bubble level.

  “Really, Mr. Dunsmore, couldn’t you have waited until I finished my bath? I don’t mind your prowling around, but my water’s getting cold. Couldn’t this wait—”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, perching himself on the lid of the commode, crossing his legs, leaning back against the tank, and twisting his arms across his chest to watch her bathe. “If we’re going to experience magic together, shouldn’t we call each other by our first names? Call me old-fashioned, but an impassioned woman screaming out, ‘Please, Mr. Dunsmore. Now, Mr. Dunsmore,’ is a little too formal for my tastes. I prefer casual sex and to be on a first name basis with my partners.” He wrinkled his nose at her. “It’s friendlier that way.”

  “Friendlier?” she asked. She swallowed hard. Was it her imagination, or was her bath water heating up again? “I ... I ...”

  “You have been tested, haven’t you?”

  “Tested?”

  “Harriet,” he said, giving her an artful smile, enjoying the sudden panic in her expression. “You’re not going to play coy with me, are you? You had me going for a few minutes, but now we both know why you lured me here and sank the boat. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m flattered. Would you like me to wash your back?”

  “What?” Oh, Lord! He thought ... “Mr. Dunsmore—”

  “Payton.”

  “Mr. Dunsmore, you’ve—”

  “Payton.”

  “Payton, you’ve got this all wrong. It’s not like that.”

  “It’s not like what?”

  “I did lure you out here, but not for sex.”

  “You did think to bring condoms, I hope. If you haven’t actually had the blood test done, then maybe we should be cautious until we can get you checked out,” he said, nodding sagely.

  “I’ve been checked, and we won’t need any condoms,” she said, more than a bit flustered. Her cheeks felt on fire. She was so hot, she expected the bath water to start putting off steam.

  “Great,” he said, grinning, his gaze lowering to her blanket of bubbles. “Want me to do your back now?”

  “No. I want you to go.”

  “Can’t,” he said with a shrug.

  “Why not?”

  “No boat.” Razzing her was irresistible. Lord, she was cute in a dither. She’d piled her thick black braid on top of her head, making her neck look longer and so inviting.

  “I meant, go from this room. Get out. Now.”

  “Harriet. You don’t have to hide yourself from me. I’ve always found female bodies to be quite beautiful. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” she said in her defense. “I want—”

  “Good,” he said, cutting her off. “I was worried. I like sex with the lights on. Then all the senses are stimulated.” He listed them slowly, “Sight. Sound. Touch. Taste. Smell. It’s much better that way, don’t you think?”

  “Will you please leave? I’d like to get out now.” She used her best stern schoolteacher voice this time—not that it made much of an impression on him.

  “Fine. I’ll dry you off, if you like.”

  “Like hell. Get out this minute, or I’ll ...” She stopped to watch a slow smirk spread across his lips.

  “Please, continue. You’ll what?”

  She glared at him. It didn’t frighten him.

  They remained just so, him smirking, her scowling for long seconds, measuring, gauging, evaluating each other.

  He couldn’t stop himself. He got to his feet like a man with a purpose, turned as if to leave, then reached out and snagged her towel from the rack. He unfolded it and watched as her eyes widened and her brows lifted. He shook it out and with both arms extended invitingly, he stepped to the side of the bathtub.

  “Mr. Dunsmore ...” She wanted to sound angry and indignant. Her voice squeaked like a mouse’s.

  “Payton.”

  “Payton. ...” Her heart was beating in her throat, choking her.

  “What happened to your glasses?” he asked absently, half-mesmerized.

  “My ... they’re downstairs.”

  “Don’t you need them?”

  “Not to take a bath,” she muttered, caught up in his fixation. “I’m nearsighted.”

  Abruptly he was all business again. He dropped one end of the towel and handed her the other. “Dry off and get dressed. I’m dying to hear about your prison experience.”

  “My prison experience?” she said, startled, but then he was gone.

  She sighed, her forehead wrinkled with worry. She hadn’t really speculated on what might happen once she sank the boat, simply assuming, she supposed now, that the island’s magic would take it from there and they would either fall in love or they wouldn’t. She hadn’t expected to feel awkward and nervous. She’d planned to be in complete control.

  It was a miscalculation. A big one. She hadn’t factored in the possibility that Mr. Dunsmore would have a mind and a will and a few ideas of his own on how to proceed—now that he’d accepted the notion that he wasn’t going anywhere until Sunday.

  The Fates were smiling on him. The nut case had a contingency plan. There was a way to get off the damned island before Sunday. All he had to do was to convince her to use it.

  The big-bad-wolf routine was fun, and it had certainly made her jumpy, but ... well, people could get carried away on that stuff, he thought, recalling how tempted he’d been to dive into that tub of bubbles with her.

  Acting out the homicidal maniac wouldn’t work either. She wasn’t afraid of him—she never had been. And if he were going to kill her, he’d have already done it down on the beach. The time was past for such splendid thoughts, though he couldn’t help but wonder if the investigator she’d hired had given her a straight line on who he was. The last person to cause him this much trouble had been a summer tutor his mother had hired to keep him occupied during his vacation from school. He’d been sixteen and ready to teach the world—and his mother—a thing or two about Payton Dunsmore IV.

  He’d made a few mistakes in the beginning, but he’d known immediately that he liked calling the shots and that he didn’t like being crossed. He came to value loyalty and dedication in people, rather than words of love and devotion.

  But that was neither here nor there, he decided, pushing his tall frame from a soft leather chair to fix himself another drink.

  He’d showed himself through the rooms on the first floor. They were beautifully decorated, stuffed with antiques and, like the other unused rooms in the house, shrouded in dustcovers. Only Harriet’s bedroom and bath, the kitchen, and the library looked lived-in.

  He liked the library. Books lining all four walls, circled by a catwalk, the large room felt close and cozy and friendly. Despite the copyright dates in some of the books and the number of first edition collectibles scattered throughout the shelves there was a ... youthfulness about the room, almost as if the words and wisdom contained within stayed endlessly young, waiting to appeal to any fresh, inquiring mind that happened by.

  There were two huge mahogany desks, one positioned near each of the floor-to-ceiling windows to catch the light. The sound of his footsteps was muffled in a thick area rug, woven in warm hues of gold and russet. Soft brown leather wing chairs and ottomans were pulled close to the six-foot fireplace. It would be a homey room any season of the year, he imagined.

  He rubbed the dull ache in his temples and paced. It could have been the Library of Congress and not a single volume would contain the answer to his present dilemma.

  There had to be a way to get around her. Talking reason to a woman, sane or not, was a waste of breath. And Harriet was not only a woman, she was a willful and resolved woman. God help him, she was a woman with a cause, which meant she’d see her foolish scheme through to the end.

  Thinking about it made his head hurt more. He needed to think clearly. The answer was most likely q
uite simple, if he could just get a handle on it. A rescue fire on the beach? Smoke signals? If there was a chance that someone on a passing cargo ship or ferry or tug or even a fishing boat would hear him, he could scream his lungs out for help.

  “Damn the woman,” he said, sitting back down in a chair by the empty fireplace. What would induce her to abandon this madness, short of disaster, injury, or illness?

  The tense throbbing in his forehead started to break up and scatter. His lips curled upward at the corners. A germ of an idea took root in his mind, then bloomed in a matter of seconds. Suddenly he was feeling much better.

  “Mr. Dunsmore? Payton?” Harriet said a short while later, alarmed, having entered the library to find Payton sprawled out in a chair, a leg flung over one armrest, his face buried in the bend of his shirtsleeve. “What is it? Are you all right?” She hurried to his side.

  “Do I look all right?” he asked, his voice weak, barely a whisper.

  “No. You don’t. Are you ill? Is there something I can do for you? Are ... are you in pain?”

  “Pain. Yes. Excruciating.” His arm fell away from his face in a listless fashion.

  “Where? Where do you hurt, Payton?” she asked, gravely concerned.

  He groaned. “Everywhere. All over. Head. Neck. Shoulders. Stomach. Legs.”

  “Oh, my. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Do you have migraines, Mr. Dunsmore-ah-Payton?” she asked, her expression empathetic. “My mother had them occasionally. They were awful. And I haven’t fed you. When did you eat last?”

  He had her now, he thought, inwardly chuckling. He waved his arm vaguely. “Breakfast?”

  “Good, but that’s still been a while. It’s probably the stress and tension of all this,” she said, filled with guilt. She threw her thick braid back over her shoulder. “It would give anyone a headache.”

  “Stomach too.”

  “Oh. I am so sorry.” He opened his eyes and gave her a pitiful look. She wasn’t wearing her glasses again, he noted. Her eyes were big and warm with compassion; her brows bent with worry and remorse. She placed a comforting hand on his cheek, cool and soothing and caring. It almost blew his performance—she was truly distressed! “Would it help to lay down, do you think? That’s why I came looking for you. I had hoped all along that I wouldn’t have to go through with this. I didn’t even prepare a room for you. Was there, I mean, do you have a preference? There are plenty of rooms to choose from.”