Casual Hex

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  No point in telling him that she didn’t care what Clara Loudermilk spread all over town. Marc was going to protect her, whether she wanted him to or not. “All your noble sacrifice will be ruined when I seduce you in the middle of the square tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah, there is a picture.”

  “Hold on to it, ’cause it’s gonna happen.” She wouldn’t exactly get naked with him there, but she wasn’t above planting a big old kiss on his gorgeous mouth, just so no one in town would have any doubt that something was going on with Gwen Dubois and her French visitor.

  “Bon nuit, cherie,” he said softly, a smile in his voice.

  “Think of me naked.”

  “Do not worry. I will.” With a gentle click, he ended the call.

  She thought about taking off the nightgown, just to keep herself from being a liar, but what was the point? She’d been taught from a young age that you should wear something to bed in case the house caught on fire and you had to run out in a hurry. Conditioning like that didn’t disappear overnight, no matter how sexually confident you became.

  If Marc were here, she would be more interested in the fire going on inside her than a potential fire in the house. She’d happily stay naked all night long. But Marc wasn’t here, so going starkers didn’t make much sense.

  She’d invented the part about soaking in the tub and using the handheld shower, too. When a girl had been treated to primo lovemaking from the likes of Marc Chevalier for several hours straight, she couldn’t get too excited about a shower head.

  Consequently she brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. The sheets smelled of sex, which was nice, but would probably give her wet dreams. As she thought about that, she climbed back out of bed. She’d promised Dorcas she’d wear the bracelet to bed. Where had she put it?

  When she couldn’t find it anywhere, she ended up crawling around on the hardwood floor. Her clothes still lay on the floor where she’d flung them once she and Marc had made it to the bedroom. The session in the woods had been deliciously exciting, but they’d both known that the best would be here in this room, in her bed. And it had been incredible.

  Finally she spied the bracelet lying under her little antique chair. That’s where it must have landed when she got rid of it after it caught on Marc’s chest hair. Once that happened, she hadn’t wanted to wear anything, not even the Larimar pendant. Marc had worn nothing but a condom. They’d made the ecstasy last, drawing out their responses until they couldn’t stand it another second.

  Later on, they’d taken a break for wine and French bread before falling back into bed and pleasuring each other in ways that made her hot all over again as she remembered Marc’s hands, his lips, his tongue. . . . The physical part of the relationship had been amazing.

  She didn’t believe it was all technique on his part, or all physical craving on hers. From the beginning, their emotions had been involved. Every touch and every kiss only deepened that emotional connection. She had no doubt they were falling in love.

  Briefly she considered whether the wine had anything to do with that. Then she quickly dismissed that idea. There had been no wine the first night, and that’s when they’d discovered the undeniable heat they generated together.

  Picking up the bracelet, she wondered if she’d need it. Dreaming about someone else seemed impossible now that she’d made love to Marc. But she’d promised Dorcas she would wear it.

  It felt clunky around her wrist as she climbed into bed and switched off the light. She considered removing the bracelet, but she was so tired that even that small effort seemed like more trouble than it was worth. She slept.

  “Gwendolyn, wake up, my darling.”

  She tried to rouse herself, thinking Marc had returned. But that couldn’t be right. She hadn’t given him a key, so he would have had to ring the doorbell.

  Forcing her eyes open, she saw a man standing beside her bed in the flowing robes of a sheik. His head was covered in a turban, so she couldn’t see the color of his hair, but his eyes were the icy blue of her dream lover.

  Crap. She was dreaming of him again, even though she was wearing the bracelet, even though her heart and her body belonged to Marc Chevalier. Her tongue was thick with sleep, but she had to get rid of this unwelcome presence in her dream.

  “Go away,” she said as clearly as possible. Her dream speech was so much slower than her real speech.

  His blue eyes registered disappointment. “You can’t mean that, Gwendolyn, after all we’ve been to each other.”

  “You’re not real.”

  “Ah, but I am. Let me show you.” He took off his turban and tossed it on the bedpost. “I’m the same man who came into town today.”

  “No, you’re most certainly not. That was . . . someone else.” She felt the uneasy beginnings of dream panic, when she wanted to run but couldn’t make her legs move. “It was someone who looks like you.”

  “No, it was me. I can inhabit both dimensions, your dream state and your reality state.”

  “I’m dreaming now, right?”

  “Yes, my beautiful Gwendolyn. And we’re going to have wonderful sex in your dream, the way we’ve always had. I want to remind you how good it can be.” He began unfastening his robes.

  “Don’t take anything off. I don’t want you to do that.”

  “Of course you do. Remember how many times I made you come?” The robes dropped to the floor, and there he stood with his magnificent body and his very hard penis.

  He was, she realized with a pang of disloyalty, a finer specimen of manhood than Marc. Marc’s abs weren’t quite as tight and his pecs not as fully developed. This man was beautiful.

  Not so long ago she’d secretly, somewhat guiltily, relished her imaginary encounters with him. He’d given her orgasms and told her she was beautiful. At the time, she’d desperately needed that. No more.

  Because now she understood that this dream lover was the opposite of Marc. This phantom of her imagination was all technique and no heart. He prided himself on his abilities as a stud and had put on quite a performance. That was the right word for it, too— performance. She could see that he thought, first and foremost, about himself.

  Apparently she’d created this dream lover, which was a chilling prospect. How could she have thought this was the kind of man she wanted? Yet she must have thought so, to have had him return night after night.

  “May I make love to you, sweet Gwendolyn?”

  “No, you may not. I’ve outgrown you, and I want you out of here.”

  “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? Playing hard to get.”

  “Try impossible to get.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “That’s not the Gwendolyn I know. I’m sure you’re hot and wet, like you always are when you see me.” He leaned down and slid his hand under the covers, touching her breast.

  “No!” She shoved his hand away. Even though this was a dream, his hand felt warm and strong.

  He grasped her wrist. “Wearing diamonds to bed, are you?”

  “Yes, because I deserve them.” She wrenched her wrist free. “Now go away.”

  “You want me, Gwendolyn. You know you do.”

  “I don’t want you. I love someone else.”

  His eyes narrowed. “The Frenchman?”

  “Yes. I love Marc.” She glared into her dream lover’s icy blue eyes. “Now get out of my dream.”

  “You’re kicking me out of your dream? Are you serious? No one’s ever done that before.” He looked genuinely hurt.

  “Then let me be the first. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  “Okay, so you don’t like sheiks. I could be something else. How about a mountain man? Give me a few minutes and I’ll—”

  “It’s not the costume, buddy. It’s you I don’t want in my bedroom. Vamoose.”

  “I have to say, you’re making a doozy of a mistake.” He picked up the robe. “Come on, Gwendolyn. Work with me, here. You won’t be sorry.”

  �
�You will be, though, if you keep hanging around in a dream where you’re not wanted. I deserve better than what you were giving me. I deserve to be loved.”

  “I can love you. I think.”

  “You think? That’s almost funny. Now leave.”

  “See what you’re doing to me with your rejection?” He swept a hand downward. “I’m losing firmness.”

  “That’s good news to me. I’m sick of looking at that thing. Bye, dream lover, whoever you are. I’m closing my eyes, and when I open them again, I want you and your male equipment gone.”

  “All right. The rules of dream engagement are very clear. I can’t stay in your dream if you don’t want me there.”

  “Good deal.”

  He put on the robe. “I think it’s time I told you my name.”

  “Who cares?” She kept her eyes closed tight.

  “You should care. I’m Prince Leo of Atwood. Remember that, Gwendolyn, because we will meet again.”

  A chill ran down her spine. Leo Atwood. This was too crazy. “Which I hope is never!” she cried out. Then she opened her eyes and switched on the bedroom lamp, heart pounding.

  No one was in the room. But something was hanging on the bedpost. When she saw it, she pinched herself, certain that she was still dreaming. The pinch hurt, but she couldn’t believe she was awake. Climbing out of bed, she grabbed her terry robe and shoved her feet into furry slippers.

  Those props had always comforted her in the past, but they weren’t enough now. She checked the bedroom window. Locked from the inside. Marching through the house and flipping on lights as she went, she examined every window lock and they were all secure.

  She noticed that a light snow was falling outside, which gave her another idea. With a good grasp on a heavy flashlight, she unlocked the front door and quickly passed the light over the front stoop. No footprints. She repeated the exercise for the back door. The snow was undisturbed.

  Although she could be asleep, this was the most detailed dream she’d ever had. There was one way to make sure she was awake. She walked into the kitchen, picked up the wall phone and dialed the number she’d written on the pad next to it.

  Marc answered on the second ring and he sounded groggy.

  “It’s me,” she said. “I had to call and make sure I’m awake.” She picked up the other item lying on the counter, the paperweight he’d given her. Looking at it grounded her.

  “You sound very awake,” he said. “I am not. Give me a moment, cherie.”

  “I don’t know if I have a moment to give. I need you to drive back here, and it has nothing to do with sex.”

  His voice sharpened immediately. “What is wrong?”

  She quickly told him about the dreams she’d been having, although she soft-pedaled how satisfying they’d been. No need for Marc to know that, because she would never allow them to take place again.

  “You wish me to come back because of a bad dream?” Marc sounded confused.

  “No, there’s more. This morning a guy who looked exactly like him showed up at the Hob Knob.” She glanced at the clock and saw it was after midnight. “I mean, yesterday morning.”

  “Leo Atwood.”

  “Yes.” The name made her shiver.

  Marc was silent for several seconds. “Do you remember the nightmare I had the first night at your house?”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Of course.” That nightmare had been the cause of them making love for the first time. She’d never forget that.

  “A man who resembled Leo Atwood was in that nightmare. In the dream, he acted as if he expected to find a woman in the bed and instead found me.”

  Gwen’s heart beat so fast she could barely breathe. “Are you saying . . . we weren’t dreaming? That he really was there?”

  “I do not know what to think.”

  “He couldn’t have been there.” She was desperate to prove that. “I ran in from the guest room the minute you cried out. He would have had to go past me to get out either door, and the windows lock from the inside, so he didn’t leave that way.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “I know that. Worse yet, he came again tonight, dressed as a sheik. I ordered him out of my dream, and when I opened my eyes, he was gone, but . . .”

  “But what, Gwen?”

  “He left behind a turban.”

  Marc drew in a quick breath. “Call Bob Anglethorpe.”

  “And tell him what?” Gwen fought panic. “I checked outside both the front and back doors for footprints. There weren’t any.”

  “You should not have opened those doors!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t go in the basement because the killer’s waiting there. I’ve seen all those movies. But I had to know, and I didn’t get murdered as a result. All I can say is that no one came through either of those doors. No one real, anyway.”

  “You should still call Bob.”

  “Marc, if you think my reputation will be ruined by your staying overnight, what will happen to it if I report seeing ghosts in my bedroom?”

  “Do you have anything you could use as a weapon?”

  “A heavy flashlight.” She picked up the gift he’d brought. “And your paperweight.”

  He muttered something in French that sounded like curse words. “Make sure everything is locked up tight. Drink coffee until I get there. I will have my cell phone if you—”

  “They don’t work here, Marc. Just come.”

  “I am on my way.”

  Chapter 21

  Leo was totally bummed by Gwendolyn’s reaction to his sheik schtick, but he wasn’t giving up. Royal blood flowed through his veins. More important, royal blood flowed to his penis whenever he contemplated sex with Gwendolyn, who was becoming more of a babe every minute.

  He might never understand why he could get it up with Gwen and not with Sylvia, but he had a hunch Gwen had more depth of character. His penis had never cared about that before, but it might be developing some discrimination. Maybe, now that he was about to become a king, his penis knew more than he did about the quality of woman he required.

  He’d left the turban behind on purpose, to give her something to think about. Minimizing himself, he’d flown back to his cave for supplies. If Gwendolyn liked Chevalier’s look, then he’d copy it.

  He emerged from the cave wearing jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt with a Mariners logo on the front, and a black leather jacket. He’d added black leather boots, a departure from the Chevalier outfit, but he needed the boots so he could tuck his jeweled fairy dagger in one of them.

  Because he was a lover, not a fighter, he’d never actually drawn the silver dagger out of its sheath. He didn’t much like the weapon, which released a deadly poison when the blade pierced anything, even a loaf of bread.

  You didn’t dare shave with the thing or use it to slice a wedge of cheese. But he took it whenever he left the Kingdom of Atwood, because it seemed like the thing to do. Until now, it had always stayed in his suitcase.

  His father used to own it, so Leo had inherited it at sixteen. According to Queen Beryl, her husband had never drawn the blade, either. For all Leo knew, the guarantee on the poison had expired long ago and the dagger was just a pretty knife.

  In any case, it seemed that if he ever planned to carry it, now would be the time. A fairy prince going in pursuit of his queen should carry some kind of weapon, just on principle.

  A sword would be more dramatic, but harder to disguise. Besides, he’d never learned how to fence. He’d been too busy learning how to vaporize his sperm. So the dagger would have to do.

  Once it was tucked inside his boot, he visualized himself into her living room. It was a homey place, but nothing compared to the Great Hall in Atwood Castle. He settled into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace and waited.

  If he’d paid more attention to his tutors, he’d be able to command a cheerful fire to welcome her when she came into the room. But he couldn’t remember how to do that, a
nd it would be a waste, anyway. Both of them would be leaving soon.

  She walked out of the kitchen wearing a bathrobe and slippers that did nothing for her figure. He’d burn those when he had the chance. No way was she wearing an outfit like that around the castle.

  She stopped in the hallway when she caught sight of him. Whatever she’d been holding in her hand, she slipped into the pocket of her ugly robe.

  He stood. “Hello, Gwendolyn.” He hated her terrified expression, but that would change when she realized how lucky she was. She just didn’t get it. When she did, she’d cover him with kisses and they might even be able to have sex before starting the journey to Atwood.

  He’d already figured out they’d have to take public transportation. He might be able to travel through visualization, but she couldn’t. Getting a human to Atwood was tricky but doable.

  She was trembling, but she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  Time to start dazzling her with his magnificence. “I’m a fairy prince. I have the ability to materialize anywhere I choose.”

  “Yeah, and I’m Angelina Jolie. You can pick locks, can’t you?”

  “No. I don’t need to.”

  “Of course.” Her voice dripped with unbecoming sarcasm. “Because you’re a frigging fairy prince. Like I’m going to believe that nonsense.”

  “Want to see my wings?” He’d never shown them to a human before, but for Gwendolyn, he’d make an exception. She’d have to get used to them, anyway.

  “Oh, right. I’m so sure you have wings.”

  “I do. They’re retractable, but if I take off my jacket and shirt, I can—”

  “You take off a single item of clothing and I’ll scream the house down. I still haven’t figured out how you get through the door without leaving footprints, but for all I know you studied under David Copperfield.”

  “David Copperfield only pretends to do magic. I really can.” In truth, he wasn’t much good at magic, but he could be. With Gwendolyn for inspiration, he’d turn into the most magical guy around.

  “Listen, Prince Whack Job. I’ve called for help, and it’s on the way. Unless you like the idea of being in a padded cell for the rest of your life, I suggest you leave by whatever means you came in here.”