The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept)

by McComas, Mary Kay

  “Remember when I told you how disillusioned I became after what happened to me? How I couldn’t believe in anything anymore?”

  “Yes.”

  “I used to ask myself, over and over, what had I done wrong? What did I miss? Why didn’t I see it coming? Why didn’t I do things differently? I had a lot of time to think it over, and do you know what I finally decided?”

  “What?”

  “That I wouldn’t have done anything differently. Everything I did was right for me at the time.” She could see that he didn’t understand. “I made the best decisions I could with the information I had. My instincts weren’t wrong, they just weren’t completely informed.”

  His frown deepened. She rolled onto her own elbow to face him. “The job change was an incredible career opportunity. I took it. It was the right thing to do. The project was worth every second I devoted to it. It was a good thing to do, and I’d do it again in a second. Max is a genius. That’s documented. He’s basically a good man, and he has a track record to prove it. I saw with my own eyes his compassion, his gentleness, and his understanding, and my instincts responded appropriately—also not a bad thing. What I couldn’t see, what I couldn’t prove later, was that he was also an unethical coward. He committed the crime. Not me. He’s the one who couldn’t face the consequences of his actions. Not me.”

  “Yeah. And you’re the one who paid the price. Not him.”

  “You think not?” she asked wisely. “I know Max Goldtharpe. There’s a lot more good in the man than bad. I believe he’s paying a much higher price than I paid for what he did.”

  “Your wishful thinking.”

  “It’s not. I believe it. I also believe in me, which is how I found the courage to fight you for this island. And I believe in you, which is why I can trust you.”

  “But you believed in and trusted the good doctor, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do you know I won’t chew you up and spit you out in the trash; finish the destruct-o-job he started on you.”

  “I don’t,” she said, smiling at him. “I could be making another big mistake.”

  “Doesn’t that scare you?”

  I think it would be scarier to spend the rest of my life in the constant fear of making another mistake.”

  Payton didn’t comment, and their drowsy voices began to speak of other things. School dances. Blind dates. Memorable firsts. However, Harriet noticed, when touches started to linger and sweet-pecking kisses lengthened to the deep, wet mind-boggling variety, Payton was more determined than ever to control his passion.

  He’d held her hands above her head and drove her slowly, carefully, and quite thoroughly out of her mind; tormenting her inch by inch, until his senses exploded, shattering his precious control. He lost his battle again—and she had a feeling she was going to enjoy his war—but he accepted his defeat in a most accommodating manner, caressing and cuddling close to his new weakness until he fell asleep.

  So? Why couldn’t she sleep? What was nagging at her? What had she forgotten? What had she left half-finished? What was wrong?

  “Well, let’s see here,” Payton said later that morning, rubbing his hands together over a suitcase of clothes. “Which great little outfit should I wear today? The blue polo with khaki slacks for a casual look or the white oxford with blue denim for a casual look?”

  “I blew it, didn’t I?” she asked from the bed where she was tying her shoes, though her gaze was fixed on a magnificent specimen of the human male wrapped in a bath towel. “You’re that one in a million man who likes to wear a tie all the time, aren’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I hate ties. I grew up in a tie. I forget to wear one every chance I get.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  Something in her voice made him turn toward her. She looked pale and tired and ... sort of solitary. So he sat down beside her.

  “I guess I should be glad that you don’t have a tolerance for late-night cavorting,” he said, gently tracing the dark shadows beneath her eyes. “But I feel like a heel for doing this to you. I shouldn’t have been so greedy.”

  “I like you greedy.” She emphasized the period on her sentence with a stingy kiss. “But if you don’t put on something other than that towel pretty soon, I’ll have to show you what greedy really is.”

  “Okay.” He kissed her back, and for a second or two she wasn’t sure if his answer meant okay, I’ll get dressed, or okay, show me what greedy really is.

  He cupped her face in his hands and studied it closely.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Worried about anything? Want to talk?”

  His concern was heartwarming, and she smiled. “I’m fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Happy. Content. Delirious. Amazed.”

  “Scared? Nervous?”

  “That too.”

  “Wondering about the future?”

  “A little.”

  “Want to talk about the island?”

  “No,” she said quickly and emphatically, a sudden panic rising up within her. It was as if he’d stuck a pin in the tissue surrounding an open wound, not quite touching the source of the pain, but hitting too close to it. “I don’t want to talk business until we get back to St. Peter’s Bay on Sunday. Okay?”

  “Why not?”

  “Please. Whatever you decide to do, don’t tell me until after we leave the island.”

  He considered her request, then nodded. “Okay. But in the meantime, you have to promise not to worry about my decision. Your eyes are sad and troubled. They’re tearing me apart. I want to make the rest of your life as smooth as glass. No troubles. No worries. No pain. I want to make you happy. I want to see it in your eyes.”

  He did make her happy, and she let him see it.

  “So this is where it all started,” he said, ducking his head low to enter the crude log cabin on the northeastern side of the island.

  “No. This is phony. It was built in thirty-six or thirty-eight, in there as a sort of shrine or something to the past. The only thing original here is the stone fireplace. That’s how they knew there was a cabin here once. Though it wasn’t Lazare’s—the fireplace is too well made. His would have been more primitive, simpler.”

  “So whose estate was this?”

  “Lazare’s grandchildren and their children lived here, and maybe one more generation after that. Then the family moved to higher land and built where the house is now, but that house was torn down when they decided to build the Victorian. There are sketches of it somewhere, I think.”

  He chuckled, running a hand over the smooth round stones of the ancient fireplace. “You know, for the last of the line of Jovettes, you’re not exactly exacting with your information.” He tried to mimic her. “It was my great-grandfather or maybe his son or was it his father. ...”

  “Listen,” she said, taking no offense. “I’m doing the best I can. Have you got any idea how many historians there’ve been in this family? Have you got any idea how many stories there are to tell? And, unfortunately, I spent a lot of time trying not to listen to all the old stories my grandparents and my mother used to tell.” She paused, thoughtful. “If you’re really interested, it’s all written down somewhere. The library’s my guess.”

  “Your guess?” His expression was dubious. “You know exactly where it’s all written down. This place may not have meant anything to you when you were young, but it means everything to you now.”

  Everything? No, not everything, she thought, watching Payton look out one of the tiny windows toward the north shore. The island and its history meant something to her, had meant a lot to her a week ago, but everything? No. Payton was everything.

  The revelation stuck in her throat, hard. Payton was everything. Compared to him, the island was a picayune lump of rock. Compared to losing Payton, losing the island was like losing air when you exhaled.

  “Harriet.” Her gaze m
et his. He’d been watching her. “What are you thinking?”

  “That the past isn’t important. That what really counts is the present.”

  “That’s very deep,” he said, trying to tease the frown from her brow, feeling troubled because she was. “Come here.” She slipped between his arms, and he leaned back against the wall for support. “Are you thinking that your past might make a difference to me, that I care whether or not you’ve been to prison?”

  “Well, no, I hadn’t thought about it. Does it?”

  “No. Other than the fact that I want to break that damned doctor’s neck for you.”

  “What if I were guilty?” she asked, curious. “Would it matter then?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, wanting to be truthful. “One of the things I love about you is your honesty. Being a crook would kind of rescind that, wouldn’t it?”

  “So you believe I’m innocent.”

  “No. I think you’re a lot of things, but innocent isn’t one of them. But ... but,” he repeated when she gasped. “I know you don’t lie and you don’t steal.”

  “Why don’t you think I’m innocent?” she asked, half-offended.

  “You cheat at pool,” he said. She sputtered. His heart chuckled, and he anticipated the fun of ruffling her feathers again. Lord, he loved her flustered. “You’re a kidnapper. You kiss like a hooker. And—”

  “A hooker!”

  “A high-priced hooker. One worth kissing.”

  “A hooker?”

  “One who knows how to make a kiss something a man could die for.”

  “They kiss that well?”

  “No. But you do,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers.

  “Know what I want to do?”

  “Oh, not the cape and top hat again?” She groaned, her head falling to his chest. “No more swooping through the halls, no more blood sucking.”

  “You loved it.”

  “I did. But no more tonight. I’ll have nightmares.”

  “Okay, but that’s not what I wanted to do anyway.”

  “What then?”

  “Let’s watch those old movies of when you were a kid.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll start a fire in the library and you can make popcorn, and we’ll watch baby Harriet grow up.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why? I want to see what you looked like then.”

  “I was ugly and there’s all sorts of naked baby butt shots and toothless smiles and falling off bikes and skates. They aren’t flattering films.”

  “I’ve already seen your fine naked butt. And falling off bikes and losing your teeth is all kid stuff. There are movies of me doing the same things,” he said. Then as if to entice her further, he added, “I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.”

  She giggled. And then she felt it.

  “Uh-oh. It’s starting. We’re almost out.” She shuffled and turned to let the tepid water shower down on Payton’s shoulders. “If we don’t get out soon, we’ll be frozen like this forever.”

  “Okay.” His kiss was long and lingering, and the water grew cooler.

  “Okay, we’ll get out?” she asked, laughing, throwing off her first shiver against the cold. “Or okay, we’ll be frozen like this forever?”

  “Yes,” he said, reaching behind him to cut off the shower. “I wouldn’t mind being like this with you forever.” He placed a wet kiss on her wet nose. “But yes, we’d better get out.”

  He reached for her towel first, wrapping her tightly and rubbing hard to warm her. Then he brushed the water from his hair with his own towel and, tucking it around his waist, left the steamy bathroom. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said.

  She was dry and had released her long braid from its pins by the time he returned.

  “Here,” he said, tossing her the top half of the obscene Mickey and Minnie pajamas, the bottoms already tied snugly about his narrow hips. “A mind is too great a thing to waste, and whoever dreamed these things up was a genius—or a pervert. Let’s see how many of these positions are really possible. We’ll cross them off one by one.”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked, examining the illustrations with a furrowed brow. “There’s no two alike. It’ll take us a month to try them all ... not to mention the months of physical therapy afterward.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, stepping close to her, sliding his hands down her soft, smooth curves. “Your agility has amazed me a couple times already.”

  “Stop that,” she murmured, her mind fuzzy with sensation, her skin flushed—not from the shower.

  The now familiar clutching in his abdomen triggered his unprecedented and perpetual hunger for the slim, slightly imperfect woman he held. Her immediate response to his touch fed his urge to exert control over her. The haze of passion in her eyes made him feel powerful. The thrill of feeling her tremble in his arms lent him an air of omnipotence.

  He smiled and helped her into the pajama top. The sensations he felt were precious, but fleeting and false. Her power over him was far greater, deeper, and infinitely more satisfying to him. He was like an ill-fated pyromaniac—driven, compelled to light the fires, only to find himself caught, trapped, and doomed to perish in the flames.

  He couldn’t think of a better way to die.

  “Still cold?” he asked, buttoning only the three middle buttons, deliberately skimming his knuckles against her pelvic region.

  Hardly, she thought.

  “Freezing. I think I’ll get a robe,” she said, stepping around him to the door. “Better yet, I have flannel pajamas with feet in them.”

  “With? Wait a second,” he said, confused, following her out into the hall and into his bedroom. “Get into bed. I’ll keep you warm.”

  “I’m chilled to the bone,” she said, stalling for time, heading for the hidden hallway between their rooms. “I’ll get my coat too.”

  “Come back here. I’ll take the chill out of your bones.”

  With door handle in hand she turned to him, vibrant, vivacious, the vision of a vamp.

  “You’d do that?” she asked, playing sweet and seductive, fully aware of the slit openings of the pajama top. “You’d warm up my bones for me?”

  Quick to catch on and fast to rise to the occasion, Payton inched forward. “Come here and see.”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “You want these bones, you’ve got to catch them.”

  He was on to her before she finished her sentence. She slammed the door in his face and raced to the other end of the hall, locking that door behind her. By the time he reached it, and swore a blue streak on the other side, she was leaving her room by the other door.

  Excitement made her giggle as she bound from the last step on the main floor, just as Payton began his descent. His great long legs were his advantage, but she was agile and she knew the house better. There were several close calls but she managed to elude him, until she crept into the long unused ballroom and pressed herself against the wall to catch her breath.

  The air was musty and chilled. The floor was ice-cold, and it stung her toes. But even before she could breathe regularly again, she was mesmerized by the beauty of the moon glowing through the walls of glass, spreading a gossamer carpet of silver across the floor.

  The room was enchanted with the sparkle of frost on the windows. Friendly shadows beckoned her, invited her to the party.

  She stepped away from the wall and was suddenly bathed in pixie light; her arms and legs were pale, graceful, luminous. As if by magic, he emerged from the darkness, tall and silent.

  “So beautiful,” she said, her voice hardly more than a breath of air.

  “So beautiful,” he agreed, his gaze fixed on the vision of her.

  They paced to the middle of the huge room and wordlessly embraced. They danced, circling, round and round. Neither was cold, neither was too sure they were even awake.

  “It is like magic, isn’t it?” he said, his voice a reverent whisper, as if he were dancing i
n a holy place.

  Magic.

  Magic.

  The word pierced her heart and mind in one swift, brutal thrust. It was magic. She was screaming and sick inside. It was magic. She stumbled, and he wrapped his arms about her.

  “I’m cold,” she murmured around the painful lump in her throat. It was magic.

  “Let’s go upstairs.” His lips pressed against her temple as he turned them to the wide oaken doors. His heart was brimming with love and protectiveness and ... it was magic.

  “Love me, Payton. Hold me.”

  “I do. I am. I will.”

  She had to tell him. It was magic. She had to tell him. But she wanted just one more night.

  “All night. Till morning.”

  “All night.” He kissed her as they mounted the stairs. “And all day tomorrow. And all day the day after, and the day after that.”

  She pressed closer and heard the steady rhythm of his life.

  It was magic.

  It was simply magic.

  Only magic.

  Eleven

  MEN ALWAYS TOOK BAD news better with a full stomach—didn’t they?

  Harriet wasn’t sure if anything was going to make what she had to tell Payton any easier, but cooking their breakfast kept her from biting her nails to nubs and held her tears at bay.

  At least she’d finally realized why she wasn’t sleeping well. How could she have been so stupid? So thoughtless? So cruel? How could she possibly sleep ever again, unless her conscience was clear?

  She closed her eyes and ground her teeth. She would have the rest of her life to call herself names and flog herself.

  Payton was the true victim, and she had to tell him.

  “Have you seen the snow?” he asked, coming into the kitchen behind her, his hair still damp from his shower.

  She glanced out the window. Snow was beginning to stick to the grass and trees, the beginnings of a winter wonderland—she couldn’t have cared less. Spring could have been in full bloom and the world would have looked just as bleak to her.

  “Think we’ll be lucky and get snowed in here before tomorrow?” he asked, sounding far too chipper on such a rotten morning.