Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  Lips pursed, he rocked back on his heels. He could see how they would appeal to people-the colors, the shapes, the sparkle. That anybody could actually believe a hunk of rock held any kind of power was one more reason to marvel at the human brain. Still, they were certainly pretty enough. Above the clusters, faceted drops hung from thin wires and tossed rainbows everywhere.

  Maybe she kept the cauldrons in the back.

  The idea made him chuckle to himself. Still, he took a last look at the display before pushing open the door. It was tempting to pick up a few pieces for himself. A paperweight, or a sun-catcher. He might just settle for that-if she wasn't selling any dragon's scales or wolfs teeth.

  The shop was crowded with people. His own fault, Nash reminded himself, for dropping in on a Saturday. Still, it would give him time to poke around and see just how a witch ran a business in the twentieth century.

  The displays inside were just as dramatic as those glistening in the window. Huge chunks of rock, some sliced open to reveal hundreds of crystal teeth. Dainty little bottles filled with colored liquid. Nash was slightly disappointed when he read one label and discovered that it was a rosemary bath balm, for relaxing the senses. He'd hoped for at least one love potion.

  There were more herbs, packaged for potpourri, for tea and for culinary uses, as well as candles in soft colors and crystals in all shapes and sizes. Some interesting jewelry-again leaning heavily on crystals-was sparkling behind glass. Artwork, paintings, statues, sculpture, all so cleverly placed that the shop might more accurately have been termed a gallery.

  Nash, always interested in the unusual, took a fancy to a pewter lamp fashioned in the shape of a winged dragon with glowing red eyes.

  Then he spotted her. One look had him certain that this was the very image of the modern witch. The sulky-looking blonde was holding a discussion with two customers over a table of tumbling stones. She had a luscious little body poured into a sleek black jumpsuit. Glittery earrings hung to her shoulders, and rings adorned every finger. The fingers ended in long, lethal-looking red nails.

  "Attractive, isn't he?"

  "Hmm?" The smoke-edged voice had Nash turning away from the dragon. This time one look had him forgetting the stacked young witch in the corner. He found himself lost for several heartbeats in a pair of cobalt blue eyes. "Excuse me?"

  "The dragon." Smiling, she ran a hand over the pewter head. "I was just wondering if I should take him home with me." She smiled, and he saw that her lips were full and soft and unpainted. "Do you like dragons?"

  "Crazy about them," he decided on the spot. "Do you shop in here often?"

  "Yes." She lifted a hand to her hair. It was black as midnight and fell in careless waves to her waist. Nash made an effort and tried to put the pieces of her together. The ebony hair went with pale, creamy skin. The eyes were wide and heavily lashed, the nose was small and sharp. She was nearly as tall as he, and wand slender. The simple blue dress she wore showed taste and style, as well as subtle curves.

  There was something, well, dazzling about her, he realized. Though he couldn't analyze what while he was so busy enjoying it.

  As he watched, her lips curved again. There was something very aware as well as amused in the movement. "Have you been in Wicca before?"

  "No. Great stuff."

  "You're interested in crystals?"

  "I could be." Idly he picked up a hunk of amethyst. "But I flunked my earth science course in high school."

  "I don't think you'll be graded here." She nodded toward the stone he held. "If you want to get in touch with your inner self, you should hold it in your left hand."

  "Oh, yeah?" To indulge her, he shifted it. He hated to tell her he didn't feel a thing-other than a shaft of pleasure at the way the dress skimmed around her knees. "If you're a regular here, maybe you could introduce me to the witch."

  Brow lifted, she followed his look as he glanced at the blonde, who was finishing up her sale. "Do you need a witch?"

  "I guess you could say that."

  She turned those wonderful blue eyes on him again. "You don't look like the type who'd come looking for a love spell."

  He grinned. "Thanks. I think. Actually, I'm doing some research. I write movies. I want to do a story on witchcraft in the nineties. You know- secret covens, sex and sacrifices."

  "Ah." When she inclined her head, clear crystal drops swung at her ears. "Nubile women doing ring dances sky-clad. Naked," she explained. "Mixing potions by the dark of the moon to seduce their hapless victims into orgies of prurient delights."

  "More or less." He leaned closer and discovered that she smelled as cool and dark as a forest in moonlight. "Does this Morgana really believe she's a witch?"

  "She knows what she is, Mr.-?"

  "Kirkland. Nash Kirkland."

  Her laugh was low and pleased. "Of course. I've enjoyed your work. I particularly liked Midnight Blood. You gave your vampire a great deal of wit and sensuality without trampling on tradition."

  "There's more to being undead than graveyard dirt and coffins."

  "I suppose. And there's more to being a witch than stirring a cauldron."

  "Exactly. That's why I want to interview her. I figure she's got to be a pretty sharp lady to pull all this off."

  "Pull off?" she repeated as she bent to pick up a huge white cat that had sauntered over to flow around her legs.

  "The reputation," he explained. "I heard about her in L.A. People bring me weird stories."

  "I'm sure they do." She stroked the cat's massive head. Now Nash had two pair of eyes trained on him. One pair of cobalt, and one of amber. "But you don't believe in the Craft, or the power."

  "I believe I can make it into a hell of a good story." He smiled, putting considerable charm into it. "So, how about it? Put in a good word for me with the witch?"

  She studied him. A cynic, she decided, and one entirely too sure of himself. Life, she thought, was obviously one big bed of roses for Nash Kirkland. Maybe it was time he felt a few thorns.

  "I don't think that'll be necessary." She offered him a hand, long and slender and adorned with a single ring of hammered silver. He took it automatically, then hissed out a breath as a jolt of electricity zinged up to his shoulder. She just smiled. "I'm your witch," she said.

  Static electricity, Nash told himself a moment later, after Morgana had turned away to answer a question from a customer about something called St. John's wort. She'd been holding that giant cat, rubbing the fur- That was where the shock had come from.

  But he flexed his fingers unconsciously.

  Your witch, she'd said. He wasn't sure he liked her use of that particular pronoun. It made things a bit too uncomfortably intimate. Not that she wasn't a stunner. But the way she'd smiled at him when he jolted had been more than a little unnerving. It had also told him just why he'd found her dazzling.

  Power. Oh, not that kind of power, Nash assured himself as he watched her handle a bundle of dried herbs. But the power some beautiful women seemed to be born with-innate sexuality and a terrifying self-confidence. He didn't like to think of himself as the kind of man who was intimidated by a woman's strength of will, yet there was no denying that the soft, yielding sort was easier to deal with.

  In any case, his interest in her was professional. Not purely, he amended. A man would have to have been dead a decade to look at Morgana Donovan and keep his thoughts on a straight professional plane. But Nash figured he could keep his priorities in order.

  Nash waited until she was finished with the customer, fixed a self-deprecating smile in place and approached the counter. "I wonder if you've got a handy spell for getting my foot out of my mouth."

  "Oh, I think you can manage that on your own." Ordinarily she would have dismissed him, but there must be some reason she'd been drawn across the shop to him. Morgana didn't believe in accidents. Anyway, she decided, any man with such soft brown eyes couldn't be a complete jerk. "I'm afraid your timing's poor, Nash. We're very busy this morning."
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  "You close at six. How about if I come back then? I'll buy you a drink, dinner?"

  Her impulse to refuse was automatic. She would have preferred to meditate on it or study her scrying ball. Before she could speak, the cat leapt onto the counter, clearing the four feet in that weightless soar felines accomplish so easily. Nash reached out absently to scratch the cat's head. Rather than walking off, insulted, or spitting bad-temperedly, as was her habit with strangers, the white cat arched sinuously under the stroking hand. Her amber eyes slitted and stared into Morgana's.

  "You seem to have Luna's approval," Morgana muttered. "Six o'clock, then," she said as the cat began to purr lustily. "And I'll decide what to do about you."

  "Fair enough." Nash gave Luna one last long stroke, then strolled out.

  Frowning, Morgana leaned down until her eyes were level with the cat's. "You'd better know what you're about."

  Luna merely shifted her not-inconsiderable weight and began to wash herself.

  Morgana didn't have much time to think about Nash. Because she was a woman who was always at war with her impulsive nature, she would have preferred a quiet hour to mull over how best to deal with him. With her hands and mind busy with a flood of customers, Morgana reminded herself that she would have no trouble handling a cocksure storyteller with puppy dog eyes.

  "Wow." Mindy, the lavishly built blonde Nash had admired, plopped down on a stool behind the counter. "We haven't seen a crowd like that since before Christmas."

  "I think we're going to have full Saturdays throughout the month."

  Grinning, Mindy pulled a stick of gum out of the hip pocket of her snug jumpsuit. "Did you cast a money spell?"

  Morgana arranged a glass castle to her liking before responding. "The stars are in an excellent position for business." She smiled. "Plus the fact that our new window display is fabulous. You can go on home, Mindy. I'll total out and lock up."

  "I'll take you up on it." She slid sinuously off the stool to stretch, then lifted both darkened brows. "My, oh, my- look at this. Tall, tanned and tasty."

  Morgana glanced over and spotted Nash through the front window. He'd had more luck with parking this time, and was unfolding himself from the front seat of his convertible.

  "Down, girl." Chuckling, Morgana shook her head. "Men like that break hearts without spilling a drop of blood."

  "That's okay. I haven't had my heart broken in days. Let's see-" She took a swift and deadly accurate survey. "Six foot, a hundred and sixty gorgeous pounds. The casual type-maybe just a tad intellectual. Likes the outdoors, but doesn't overdo it. Just a few scattered sun streaks through the hair, and a reasonable tan. Good facial bones-he'll hold up with age. Then there's that yummy mouth."

  "Fortunately I know you, and understand you actually do think more of men than you do puppies in a pet-store window."

  With a chuckle, Mindy fluffed her hair. "Oh, I think more of them, all right. A whole lot more." As the door opened, Mindy shifted position so that her body seemed about to burst out of the jumpsuit. "Hello, handsome. Want to buy a little magic?"

  Always ready to accommodate a willing woman, Nash flashed her a grin. "What do you recommend?"

  "Well-" The word came out in a long purr to rival one of Luna's.

  "Mindy, Mr. Kirkland isn't a customer." Morgana's voice was mild and amused. There were few things more entertaining than Mindy's showmanship with an attractive man. "We have a meeting."

  "Maybe next time," Nash told her.

  "Maybe anytime." Mindy slithered around the counter, shot Nash one last devastating look, then wiggled out the door.

  "I bet she boosts your sales," Nash commented.

  "Along with the blood pressure of every male within range. How's yours?"

  He grinned. "Got any oxygen?"

  "Sorry. Fresh out." She gave his arm a friendly pat. "Why don't you have a seat? I have a few more things to-Damn."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Didn't get the Closed sign up quick enough," she muttered. Then she beamed a smile as the door opened. "Hello, Mrs. Littleton."

  "Morgana." The word came out in a long, relieved sigh as a woman Nash judged to be somewhere between sixty and seventy streamed across the room.

  The verb seemed apt, he thought. She was built like a cruise ship, sturdy of bow and stern, with colorful scarves wafting around her like flags. Her hair was a bright, improbable red that frizzed cheerfully around a moon-shaped face. Her eyes were heavily outlined in emerald, and her mouth was slicked with deep crimson. She threw out both hands-they were crowded with rings-and gripped Morgana's.

  "I simply couldn't get here a moment sooner. As it was, I had to scold the young policeman who tried to give me a ticket. Imagine, a boy hardly old enough to shave, lecturing me on the law." She let out huff of breath that smelled of peppermint. "Now then, I hope you have a few minutes for me."

  "Of course." There was no help for it, Morgana thought. She was simply too fond of the batty old woman to make excuses.

  "You're a dream. She's a dream, isn't she?" Mrs. Littleton demanded of Nash.

  "You bet."

  Mrs. Littleton beamed, turning toward him with a musical symphony of jaggling chains and bracelets. "Sagittarius, right?"

  "Ah-" Nash heedlessly amended his birthday to suit her. "Right Amazing."

  She puffed out her ample bosom. "I do pride myself on being an excellent judge. I won't keep you but a moment from your date, dear."

  "I don't have a date," Morgana told her. "What can I do for you?"

  "Just the teensiest favor." Mrs. Littleton's eyes took on a gleam that had Morgana stifling a moan. "My grandniece. There's the matter of the prom, and this sweet boy in her geometry class."

  This time she'd be firm, Morgana promised herself. Absolutely a rock. Taking Mrs. Littleton's arm, she edged her away from Nash. "I've explained to you that I don't work that way."

  Mrs. Littleton fluttered her false eyelashes. "I know you usually don't. But this is such a worthy cause."

  "They all are." Narrowing her eyes at Nash, who'd shifted closer, Morgana pulled Mrs. Littleton across the room. "I'm sure your niece is a wonderful girl, but arranging a prom date for her is frivolous-and such things have repercussions. No," she said when Mrs. Littleton began to protest. "If I did arrange it-changing something that shouldn't be changed-it could affect her life."

  "It's only one night."

  "Altering fate one night potentially alters it for centuries." Mrs. Littleton's downcast look had Morgana feeling like a miser refusing a starving man a crust of bread. "I know you only want her to have a special night, but I just can't play games with destiny."

  "She's so shy, you see," Mrs. Littleton said with a sigh. Her ears were sharp enough to have heard the faint weakening in Morgana's resolve. "And she doesn't think she's the least bit pretty. But she is." Before Morgana could protest, she whipped out a snapshot. "See?"

  She didn't want to see, Morgana thought. But she looked, and the pretty young teenager with the somber eyes did the rest. Morgana cursed inwardly. Dragon's teeth and hellfire. She was as soppy as a wet valentine when it came to puppy love.

  "I won't guarantee-only suggest."

  "That will be wonderful." Seizing the moment, Mrs. Littleton pulled out another picture, one she'd cut from the high school yearbook at the school library. "This is Matthew. A nice name, isn't it? Matthew Brody, and Jessie Littleton. She was named for me. You will start soon, won't you? The prom's the first weekend in May."

  "If it's meant, it's meant," Morgana said, slipping the photos into her pocket.

  "Blessed be." Beaming, Mrs. Littleton kissed Morgana's cheek. "I won't keep you any longer. I'll be back Monday to shop."

  "Have a good weekend." Annoyed with herself, Morgana watched Mrs. Littleton depart.

  "Wasn't she supposed to cross your palm with silver?" Nash asked.

  Morgana tilted her head. The anger that had been directed solely at herself shot out of her eyes. "I don't profit from power."


  He shrugged, then walked toward her. "I hate to point it out, but she twisted you around her finger."

  A faint flush crept into her cheeks. If there was anything she hated more than being weak, it was being weak in public. "I'm aware of that."

  Lifting a hand, he rubbed his thumb over her cheek to wipe away the faint smear of crimson Mrs. Littleton had left there. "I figured witches would be tough."

  "I have a weak spot for the eccentric and the good hearted. And you're not a Sagittarius."

  He was sorry he had to remove his thumb from her cheek. Her skin was as cool and smooth as milk. "No? What, then?"

  "Gemini."

  His brow lifted, and he stuck his hand in his pocket. "Good guess."

  His discomfort made her feel a little better. "I rarely guess. Since you were nice enough not to hurt her feelings, I won't take out my annoyance on you. Why don't you come in the back? I'll brew us some tea." She laughed when she saw his expression. "All right. I'll pour us some wine."

  "Better."

  He followed her through a door behind the counter into a room that served as storage, office and kitchenette. Though it was a small area, it didn't seem overly crowded. Shelves lined two walls and were stacked with boxes, uncrated stock and books. A curvy cherry desk held a brass lamp shaped like a mermaid, an efficient-looking two-line phone and a pile of paperwork held in place by a flat-bottomed glass that tossed out color and reflection.

  Beyond that was a child-size refrigerator, a two-burner stove and a drop-leaf table with two chairs. In the single window, pots of herbs were crowded and thriving. He could smell- he wasn't sure what-sage, perhaps, and oregano, with a homey trace of lavender. Whatever it was, it was pleasant.

  Morgana took two clear goblets from a shelf over the sink.

  "Have a seat," she said. "I can't give you very much time, but you might as well be comfortable." She took a long, slim-necked bottle out of the refrigerator and poured a pale golden liquid into the goblets.