It was easy to enjoy. The fast, open car on the curving road, the shadowy moonlight and the sea-flavored air. And it was easy to enjoy him, this man who drove with a natural, confident flair, who played the radio too loud, who smelled of the night and all its secrets.
Turning her head, she studied his profile. Oh, she would have enjoyed running her fingers over that angular face, testing the shape of the bones, brushing a touch over that clever mouth, perhaps feeling the slight roughness of his chin. She would have enjoyed it very much.
So why did she hesitate? Though she'd never been promiscuous or seen every attractive man as a potential lover, she recognized the deeper desire to be his. And she had seen that it was to happen before much longer in any case.
That was her answer, Morgana realized. She would always rebel against being destiny's puppet.
But surely if she chose him for herself, if she kept the power in her own hands, it was not the same as being led by fate. She was, after all, her own mistress.
"Why did you go into town tonight?" she asked him.
"I was restless. Tired of myself."
She understood the feeling. It didn't spring up in her often, but when it did it was unbearable. "The script is going well?"
"Pretty well. I should have a treatment to send to my agent in a few days." He glanced toward her, then immediately wished he hadn't. She looked so beautiful, so alluring, with the wind in her hair and the moonlight sprinkling over her skin, that he didn't want to look away again. It wasn't a wise way to operate a moving vehicle. "You've been a lot of help."
"Does that mean you're through with me?"
"No. Morgana, I-" He stopped and swore, catching himself a moment after he passed her driveway. He backed up and turned in, but left the motor running. For a moment he sat brooding in silence, looking at the house, where only a single window glowed gold and the rest were black as pitch.
If she asked him in, he would go with her, would have to go. Something was happening tonight. Something had been happening since the moment he'd turned and looked into her eyes. It gave him the unsettling feeling that he was walking through someone else's script and the ending had yet to be written.
"You are restless," she murmured. "Out of character for you." On impulse, she reached over and switched off the ignition. The absence of the engine's purr had the silence roaring in his head. Their bodies brushed, and the promise of more sizzled hot in his gut. "Do you know what I like to do when I'm restless?"
Her voice had lowered, and it seemed liquid enough now to slide over his skin like mulled wine. He turned to see those vivid blue eyes glowing with moonlight. And his hands were already reaching for her. "What?"
She eased away, slipping from his hands like a ghost. After opening her door, she walked slowly around to his side, leaned down until their lips nearly touched. "I take a walk." With her eyes still on his, she straightened and offered a hand. "Come with me. I'll show you a magic place."
He could have refused. But he knew if there was a man who wouldn't have stepped from the car and taken that offered hand he had yet to be born.
They crossed the lawn, walking away from the house where the single light glowed, and entered the mystic shadows and whispering silence of the Cyprus grove. Moonlight flickered down, casting eerie silhouettes of the twisted branches on the soft forest floor. The faintest of breezes hummed through the leaves and made him think of the harp she kept in her drawing room.
Her hand was warm and firm in his as she moved forward, not with hurry, but with purpose.
"I like the night." She took a deep breath of it. "The scent and the flavor of night. Sometimes I'll wake in the dark, and come to walk here."
He could hear water on rock, a steady heartbeat of sound. For reasons he couldn't fathom, his own heart was thudding relentlessly in his chest.
Something was happening.
"The trees." The sound of his own voice seemed odd and secretive in the shadowy grove. "I fell in love with them."
She stopped walking to eye him curiously. "Did you?"
"I was up here on vacation last year. Wanted to get out of the heat. I couldn't get enough of the trees." He laid a hand on one, feeling the rough bark of a trunk that bent dramatically away. "I'd never been much of the nature type. I'd always lived in cities, or just outside them. But I knew I had to live somewhere where I could look out of my window and see these trees."
"Sometimes we come back where we belong." She began to walk again, her footsteps silent on the soft earth. "Some ancient cult worshiped trees like these." She smiled. "I think it's enough to love them, appreciate them for their age, their beauty, their tenacity. Here." She stopped again and turned to him.
"This is the center, the heart. The purest magic is always in the heart."
He couldn't have said why he understood, or why he believed.
Perhaps it was the moon, or the moment. He knew only that he felt a stirring along the skin, a fluttering in his mind. And, from somewhere deep in memory, he knew he'd been here before. With her.
Lifting a hand, he touched her face, letting his fingertips trace from cheek to jaw. She didn't move, not forward or away. She only continued to watch him. And wait.
"I don't know if I like what's happening to me," he said quietly.
"What is happening to you?"
"You are." Unable to resist, he lifted his other hand so that her face was framed, a captive of his tensed fingers. "I dream about you. Even in the middle of the day I dream about you. I can't turn it off, or switch the scene around as I'd like. It just happens."
She lifted a hand to his wrist, wanting to feel the good, strong beat of his pulse. "Is that so bad?"
"I don't know. I'm real good at avoiding complications, Morgana. I don't want that to change."
"Then we'll keep it simple."
He wasn't certain if she had moved, or if he had, but somehow she was in his arms, and his mouth was drinking from hers. No dream had ever been so stirring.
Her tongue toyed with his, tempting him to plunge deeper. She welcomed him with a moan that sizzled in his blood. At last he pleasured himself by tasting the long line of her throat, sliding his tongue over the pulse that hammered there, nibbling the sensitive flesh under her jaw, until he felt the first quick, helpless shudder pass through her. And then he was diving, more deeply, more desperately, when his mouth again met hers.
How could she have thought she had any choice, any control? What they were bringing to each other here was as old as time, as fresh as spring.
If only it could be pleasure, nothing more, she thought weakly as sensations battered against her will. But even as her body throbbed with that pleasure, she knew it was much, much more.
Not once in her years as a woman had she given her heart. It had not been jealously guarded, because it had always been safe.
But now, with the moon overhead, with the silent old trees as witnesses, she gave it to him.
Her arms tightened at the swift, silvery ache. His name tumbled from her lips. In that moment, she knew why she had needed to bring him there, to her most private place. Where could it be more fitting for her to lose her heart than here?
For another moment, she held him close, letting her body absorb what he could give her, wishing she could have honored her word and kept it simple.
But it was not to be simple now. Not for either of them. All she could do was take the time that was still left and prepare them both.
When she would have drawn back, he pulled her in, taking her mouth again and again while images and sounds and needs whirled in his brain.
"Nash." She turned her head to rub her cheek soothingly against his. "It can't be now."
Her quiet voice slipped through the roaring in his brain. He had an urge to drag her to the ground, take her then and there, prove that she was wrong. It had to be now. It would be now. The wave of violence stunned him. Appalled, he loosened his grip, realizing his fingers were digging into her flesh.
"I'm sor
ry." He dropped his hands to his sides. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." Touched, she brought his hand to her lips. "Of course not. Don't worry."
He damn well would worry. He'd never, never been anything but gentle with a woman. There were some who might say he could be careless with feelings, and if it was true he was sorry for it. But no one would ever have accused him of being careless physically.
Yet he had nearly pulled her to the ground and taken what he so desperately needed, without a thought to her acceptance or agreement.
Shaken, he jammed his hands in his pockets. "I was right, I don't like what's happening here. That's the second time I've kissed you, and the second time I've felt like I had to. The same way I have to breathe or eat or sleep."
She would have to tread carefully here. "Affection is just as necessary for survival."
He doubted it, since he'd done without it for most of his life. Studying her, he shook his head. "You know, babe, if I believed you were really a witch, I'd say I was spellbound."
It surprised her that it hurt. Oh, not his words so much as the distance it put between them. Try as she might, she couldn't remember ever having been hurt by a man before. Perhaps that was what it meant to be in love. She hadn't guarded her heart before, but she could protect it now.
"Then it's fortunate you don't believe. It was just a kiss, Nash." She smiled, hoping the shadows would mask the sadness in her eyes. "There's nothing to fear in a kiss."
"I want you." His voice had roughened, and his hands were fisted in his pockets. There was a helplessness tangled with this need. Perhaps that was what had nearly touched off violence. "That might be dangerous."
She didn't doubt it. "When the time comes, we'll find out. Now I'm tired. I'm going in."
This time, when she walked through the grove, she didn't offer her hand.
CHAPTER 5
Morgana had opened the doors of Wicca for the first time five years and some months before Nash had walked through them looking for a witch. The success of the shop was due to Morgana's insistence on intriguing stock, her willingness to put in long hours, and her frank enjoyment of the game of buying and selling.
Since her family, for longer than anyone could clearly remember, had been financially successful, she could have spent her time in any number of idle pursuits while drawing from a number of trust funds. Her decision to become a businesswoman had been a simple one. She was ambitious enough, and more than proud enough, to want to earn her own living.
The choice of opening a shop had appealed to Morgana because it allowed her to surround herself with things she liked and enjoyed. She had also, from the first sale, found pleasure in passing those things along to others who would also enjoy them.
There were definite advantages to owning your own business. A sense of accomplishment, the basic pride of ownership, the constant variety of people who walked in and out of your life. But whenever there was an up side, there was also a down. If you were blessed with a sense of responsibility, it wasn't possible to simply shut the doors and pull down the shades when you were in the mood to be alone.
Among Morgana's many gifts was an undeniable sense of responsibility.
At the moment, she wished her parents had allowed her to become a flighty, self-absorbed, feckless woman. If they hadn't done such a good job raising her, she might have bolted the door, jumped in her car and driven away until this miserable mood passed.
She wasn't used to feeling unsettled. She certainly didn't like the idea that this uncomfortable mood had been brought on by a man. As long as she could remember, Morgana had been able to handle all members of the male species. It was-she smiled a little at the thought-a gift. Even as a child she'd been able to dance her way around her father and her uncles, getting her own way with a combination of charm, guilt and obstinacy. Sebastian had been tougher to manage, but she felt she'd at least broken even there.
Once she'd reached adolescence, she'd learned quickly how to deal with boys. What moves to make if she was interested, what moves to make if she was not. As the years had passed, it had been a simple matter of applying the same rules, with subtle variations, to men.
Her sexuality was a source of joy to her. And she was well aware that it equaled another kind of power. She would never abuse power. Her dealings with men, whether they led to friendship or to romance, had always been successful.
Until now. Until Nash.
When had she begun to slip? Morgana wondered as she wrapped and bagged a long, slim bottle of ginseng bath balm for a customer. When she'd followed that little tug on her sixth sense and crossed this very room to speak to him for the first time? When she'd bowed to that spark of curiosity and attraction and kissed him?
Perhaps she had made her first serious misstep only last night, by allowing herself to be led by pure emotion. Taking him into the grove, to that spot where the air hummed and the moon spilled.
She had taken no other man there before. She would take no other man there again.
At least, dreaming back, she could almost make herself believe it was the place and the night that had caused her to believe she had fallen in love.
She didn't want to accept that such a thing could happen to her so quickly, or leave her such little choice.
So she would refuse to accept and put an end to it.
Morgana could almost hear the spirits laughing. Ignoring the sensation, she walked around the counter to help a customer.
Throughout the morning, business was slow but steady. Morgana wasn't sure whether she preferred it when browsers drifted in or when she and Luna had the shop to themselves.
"I think I should blame you for the whole thing." Morgana braced her elbows on the table and leaned down until she was eye to eye with the cat. "If you hadn't been so friendly, I wouldn't have assumed he was harmless."
Luna merely switched her tail and looked wise.
"He's not the least bit harmless," Morgana continued. "Now it's too late to back out. Oh, sure," she said when Luna blinked, "I could tell him the deal's off. I could make up excuses why I couldn't meet with him anymore. If I wanted to admit I was a coward." She drew in a deep breath and rested her brow on the cat's. "I am not a coward." Luna gave Morgana's cheek a playful pat. "Don't try to make up. If this business gets any farther out of hand, it's on your head."
Morgana glanced up when the shop door opened. Her lips curved in relief when she spotted Mindy. "Hi. Is it two already?"
"Just about." Mindy tucked her purse behind the counter, then gave Luna a quick scratch between the ears. "So how's it going?"
"Well enough."
"I see you sold the big rose quartz cluster."
"About an hour ago. It's going to a good home, a young couple from Boston. I've got it in the back ready to pack for shipping."
"Want me to take care of it now?"
"No, actually, I could use a little break from retail. I'll do it while you mind the shop."
"Sure. You look a little down, Morgana."
She arched a brow. "Do I?"
"Yep. Let Madame Mindy see." Taking Morgana's hand, she peered, steely eyed, at the palm. "Aha. No doubt about it. Man trouble."
Despite the accuracy, the very annoying accuracy, of the statement, Morgana's lips twitched. "I hate to doubt your expertise in palmistry, Madame Mindy, but you always say it's man trouble."
"I play the odds," Mindy pointed out. "You'd be surprised how many people stick their hands in my face just because I work for a witch."
Intrigued, Morgana tilted her head. "I suppose I would."
"Well, lots of them are nervous about approaching you, and I'm safe. I guess they figure some of it might rub off, but not enough to worry about. Sort of like catching a touch of the flu or something, I guess."
For the first time in hours, a laugh bubbled up in Morgana's throat. "I see. I suppose it would disappoint them to learn I don't read palms."
"They won't hear it from me." Mindy lifted a jade-and-silver hand mirror to check her face
. "But I'll tell you, honey, I don't need to be a fortune-teller to see a tall blond man with great buns and eyes to die for." She tugged a corkscrew curl toward the middle of her forehead before glancing at Morgana. "He giving you a rough time?"
"No. Nothing I can't handle."
"They're easy to handle." After setting the mirror aside, Mindy unwrapped a fresh stick of gum. "Until they matter." Then she flashed Morgana a smile. "Just say the word and I'll run interference for you."
Amused, Morgana patted Mindy's cheek. "Thanks, but I'll make this play on my own."
Her mood brighter, Morgana stepped into the back room. What was she worried about anyway? She could handle it. Would handle it. After all, she didn't know Nash well enough for him to matter.
He had plenty to keep him busy, Nash told himself. Plenty. He was sprawled on the sofa-six feet of faded, sagging cushions he'd bought at a garage sale because it was so obviously fashioned for afternoon naps. Books were spread over his lap and jumbled on the floor. Across the room, the agonies and pathos of an afternoon soap flickered on the television screen. A soft-drink bottle stood on the cluttered coffee table, should he want to quench his thirst.
In the next room, his computer sat sulking at the lack of attention. Nash thought he could almost hear it whine.
It wasn't like he wasn't working. Idly Nash ripped off a sheet of notepaper and began folding it. He might have been lying on the sofa, he might have spent a great deal of his morning staring into space. But he was thinking. Maybe he'd hit a bit of a snag in the treatment, but it wasn't like he was blocked or anything. He just needed to let it cook awhile.
Giving the paper a last crease, he narrowed his eyes, then sent the miniature bomber soaring. To please himself, he added sound effects as the paper airplane glided off, crash-landing on the floor in a heap of other models.
"Sabotage," he said grimly. "Must be a spy on the assembly line." Shifting for comfort, he began to build another plane while his mind drifted.
Interior scene, day. The big, echoing hangar is deserted. Murky light spills through the front opening and slants over the silver hull of a fighter jet. Slow footsteps approach. As they near, there is something familiar about them, something feminine. Stiletto heels on concrete. She slips in the entrance, from light into shadow. The glare and the tipped-down brim of a slouchy hat obscure her face, but not the body poured into a short red leather dress. Long, shapely legs cross the hangar floor. In one delicate hand, she holds a black leather case.
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