Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  Her body was a banquet of slender curves, smooth skin, subtle muscles. But he no longer felt the urge to ravish. How much better it was, this time, to sample, to savor, to seduce. How much more power did a man need than to feel a woman's skin singing under his hands?

  He skimmed over her hips, let his fingers glide over those long, lovely thighs, changing the angle on the return journey so that he absorbed all the little bolts of pleasure at finding her already hot and damp for him.

  When her knees buckled, he gathered her close, lowering her to the cloth so that he could begin the same glorious journey with his lips.

  Steeped in sensation, she tugged his shirt away so that she could feel the wonder of his flesh sliding over hers. His muscles were taut, showing her that the gentleness he gave her took more strength than wild passion would have. She murmured something, and he brought his mouth back to hers so that she could slide the jeans over his hips, cast them away and make him as vulnerable as she.

  Sweet, mindless pleasure. Long, lingering delights. The moon showered its fragile light as they offered each other the most precious of gifts. The scattered flowers they lay on sent up exotic perfumes to mix with the scent of the night. Though the breeze rustled the leaves, the encircling flames ran straight and true.

  Even when passion gripped them, sending them rolling over crushed blooms and rumpled silk, there was no rush. Somewhere in the shadows, the owl called again, and the ring of flames shot up like lances. Closing them in, closing all else out.

  Her body was shuddering, but there were no longer any nerves or fears. Her arms encircled him as he slipped inside her.

  With his blood roaring in his head, he watched her eyes flutter open, saw those gold stars shining against the deep blue as magnificently as those overhead shone in the sky. He lowered his mouth to hers as they moved together in a dance older and more powerful than any other.

  She felt the beauty of it, the magic that was more potent than anything she could conjure. He filled her utterly. Even when the ache drove them both, the tenderness remained. Two glistening tears slipped from her eyes as she arched for him, letting her body fly with that final staggering release. She heard him call out her name, like a prayer, as he poured himself into her.

  When he buried his face in her hair, shuddering, she saw the flash of a shooting star, streaking like a flame through the velvet sky.

  ...

  Time passed. Minutes, hours, it didn't concern him. All he knew was that she was as soft as a wish beneath him, her body relaxed but still curled into his. Nash thought it would be delightful for them to stay just like this until sunrise.

  Then he thought, more practically, that he would probably end up smothering her.

  When he started to shift, Morgana clamped herself around him like a vise. "Uh-uh," she said sleepily.

  Since she insisted, he thought he might as well nibble on her neck. "I may be on the thin side, but I'd guess I have you by a good sixty pounds. Besides, I want to look at you."

  He levered himself onto his elbows and pleased himself.

  Her hair was spread out like tangled black silk on the white cloth. There were flowers caught in it, making him think of gypsies and faeries. And witches.

  He let out a long, labored breath. "What happens when a mortal makes love to a witch?"

  She had to smile, and did so slowly, sinuously. "Did you happen to notice the gargoyles on the tower of the house?" Nash's mouth opened, then closed again. Morgana let out a long, rich laugh as her fingers danced down his spine. "I love it when you're gullible."

  He was feeling entirely too good to be annoyed. Instead, he played with her hair. "It seemed like a reasonable question. I mean, you are- I know you are. But it's still tough to swallow. Even after what I saw tonight." His eyes came back to hers. "I watched you."

  She traced his lips with a fingertip. "I know."

  "I've never seen anything more beautiful. You, the light. The music." His brows came together. "There was music."

  "For those who know how to hear it. For those who are meant to hear it."

  It wasn't so hard to accept, after everything else. "What are you doing here? It looked like some kind of ceremony."

  "Tonight's the spring equinox. A magic night. What happened here, with us, was magic, too."

  Because he couldn't resist, he kissed her shoulder. "It sounds like a tired line, but it's never been like this for me before. With anyone."

  "No." She smiled again. "Not with anyone." Her pulse leapt as she felt him harden inside her. "Again," she murmured when his lips lowered to hers.

  The night moved toward morning before they dressed. As Nash pulled on his sweatshirt, he watched Morgana gathering up the crushed and broken flowers.

  "I guess we did them in. I'll have to steal you some more."

  Smiling, she cradled them in her arms. "These will do nicely," she said. Nash's eyes widened when he saw that the flowers she held were now as full and fresh as when he had first picked them.

  He passed a hand through his hair. "I don't think I'm going to get used to that anytime soon."

  She merely placed them in his hands. "Hold them for me. I have to remove the circle." She gestured, and the candle flames died. As she took them from the ground, she chanted quietly.

  "The circle cast in the moon's light is lifted now by my right. The work is done, with harm to none. With love and thanks I set thee free. As I will, so mote it be."

  She set the last candle in the basket, then lifted the cloth. When it was folded, she put it away.

  "That's, ah- all there is to it?"

  She picked up the basket and turned to him. "Things are usually more simple than we believe." Morgana offered a hand, pleased when he curled his fingers around hers. "And, in the spirit of that simplicity, will you share my bed for what's left of the night?"

  He brought their joined hands to his lips and gave her a simple answer. "Yes."

  She couldn't get enough of him, Nash thought dreamily. During the night, they had turned to each other again and again. Drifting off to sleep, drifting into love while the moonlight faded. And now, when the sun was a pale red glow behind his closed lids, she was nuzzling his ear.

  He smiled, murmuring to her as he let himself float toward wakefulness. Her head was a warm, welcome weight on his chest. The way she was tickling and teasing his ear told him she would not object to some lazy morning loving. More than willing to oblige her, he lifted a hand to stroke her hair. His hand stopped in midair.

  How could her head be on his chest and her mouth be at his ear? Anatomically speaking, it just didn't figure. But then again, he'd seen her do several things that didn't figure in terms of the simple laws of the real world. But this was too weird. Even half-awake, his lively imagination bounced.

  Would he open his eyes to look and see something so fantastic, so out of his realm, that it would send him screaming out into the night?

  Day, he reminded himself. It was day. But that was hardly the point.

  Cautiously he let his hand lower until it touched her hair. Soft, thick, but- God, the shape of her head was wrong. She'd changed. She'd- she'd shifted into- When her head moved under his hand, Nash let out a muffled cry and, with his heart skating into his throat, opened his eyes.

  The cat lay on his chest, staring at him with unblinking-and somehow smug-amber eyes. Nash jolted when something cold slid over his cheek. He found that Pan was standing with his forelegs on the bed, his big silver head tilted curiously to one side. Before Nash could speak, the dog licked him again.

  "Oh, boy." While Nash waited for his mind to clear and his pulse to settle, Luna stood, stretched, then padded up his chest to peer into his face. Her muttered purr seemed distinctly like a chuckle. "Okay, sure, you got me." He reached out with each hand to rub a furry head.

  Pan took that for a welcome and leapt onto the bed. He landed-light-footed, fortunately-on Nash's most vulnerable area. With a strangled oof, Nash sat bolt upright, dislodging the cat and making
her rap up against Pan.

  Things looked dicey for a moment, with the animals glaring and growling at each other. But Nash was too concerned with getting his wind back to worry about the prospect of fur flying.

  "Ah, playing with the animals?"

  Sucking in air, Nash looked up to see Morgana standing in the doorway. The moment she was spotted, Luna flicked her tail in Pan's face, strolled over to a pillow, circled, sat and began to wash her hindquarters. Tail thumping, Pan plopped down. Nash figured he had about seventy pounds of muscle pinning his legs to the mattress.

  "My pets seem very fond of you."

  "Yeah. We're one happy family."

  With a steaming mug in one hand, she crossed to the bed. She was already dressed, in a little red number with beads and embroidery on the wide shoulders, and tiny snaps running down the front until they ran out at the hem, which stopped several inches above her very sexy knees.

  Nash wondered if he should undo the snaps one at a time, or in one quick yank. Then he caught a scent that was nearly as exotic and every bit as seductive as her perfume.

  "Is that coffee?"

  Grinning, he reached out to toy with the end of the hair she'd woven into an intricate braid. "That was awfully sweet of you."

  Her eyes mirrored surprise. "What was? Oh, you think I brought this in for you." Watching him, she tapped a fingertip against the mug. "That I brewed a pot of coffee, poured a cup and decided to serve it to you, in bed, because you're so damn cute."

  Properly chastened, he sent one last, longing look at the mug. "Well, I-"

  "In this case," she said, interrupting him, "you happen to be exactly right."

  He took the cup she offered, watching her over the rim as he drank. He wasn't a coffee snob-couldn't afford to be, with the mud he usually made for himself-but he was sure this was the best cup to be found west of the Mississippi. "Thanks. Morgana-" He reached up to set one of the complex arrangements of beads and stones at her ears jangling. "Just how damn cute am I?"

  She laughed, pushing the mug aside so that she could kiss him. "You'll do, Nash." More than do, she thought as she kissed him again. With that tousled, sun-streaked hair tumbled around a sleepy face, that surprisingly well-muscled chest tempting her above the tangle of sheets, and that very warm, very skilled mouth rubbing against hers, he did magnificently.

  She pulled back, not without regret. "I have to go to work."

  "Today?" Lazily he cupped his hand around the back of her neck to urge her closer. "Don't you know it's a national holiday?"

  "Today?"

  "Sure." She smelled like night, he thought. Like flowers that bloom only in starlight. "It's National Love-In Day. A tribute to the sixties. You're supposed to celebrate it by-"

  "I get the picture. And that's very inventive," she said, closing her teeth over his bottom lip. "But I have a shop to run."

  "That's very unpatriotic of you, Morgana. I'm shocked."

  "Drink your coffee." She stood to keep from letting him change her mind. "There's food in the kitchen if you feel like breakfast."

  "You could have gotten me up." He snagged her hand before she could retreat.

  "I thought you could use the sleep, and I didn't want to give you any more time to distract me."

  His eyes slanted up to hers as he nibbled on her knuckles. "I'd like to spend several hours distracting you."

  Her knees went weak. "I'll give you a chance later."

  "We could have dinner."

  "We could." Her blood was beginning to hum, but she couldn't make herself pull her hand free.

  "Why don't I pick something up, bring it by?"

  "Why don't you?"

  He opened her hand to press a kiss on the palm. "Seven-thirty?"

  "Fine. You'll let Pan out, won't you?"

  "Sure." His teeth grazed her wrist and sent her pulse soaring. "Morgana, one more thing."

  Her body yearned toward his. "Nash, I really can't-"

  "Don't worry." But he could see that she was worried, and it delighted him. "I'm not going to muss you up. It's going to be too much fun thinking about doing just that for the next few hours. I left something for you on the front stoop last night. I was hoping you'd find time to read it."

  "Your script? You've finished?"

  "All but some fine-tuning, I think. I'd like your opinion."

  "Then I'll try to have one." She leaned over to kiss him again. " 'Bye."

  "See you tonight." He settled back with the cooling coffee, then swore.

  Morgana turned at the doorway. "What?"

  "My car's parked behind yours. Let me get some pants on."

  She laughed. "Nash, really." With that, she strolled away. The cat jumped off the bed and followed.

  "Yeah," Nash said to the now-snoozing Pan. "I guess she can take care of it."

  Sitting back, he prepared to drink his coffee in solitary splendor. As he sipped, he studied the room. This was the first chance he'd taken to see what Morgana surrounded herself with in her most private place.

  There was drama, of course. She walked with drama wherever she went. Here it was typified in the bold jewel colors she'd chosen. Turquoise for the walls. Emerald for the spread they had kicked aside during the night. Bleeding hues of both were in the curtains that fluttered at the windows. A daybed upholstered in sapphire stretched under one window. It was plumped with fat pillows of garnet, amethyst and amber. Arched over it was a slender brass lamp with a globe shaped like a lush purple morning glory. The bed itself was magnificent, a lake of tumbled sheets bordered by massive curved head and footboards.

  Intrigued, Nash started to get up. Pan was still pinning his legs, but after a couple of friendly nudges, he rolled aside obligingly to snore in the center of the bed. Naked, mug in one hand, Nash began to wander the room.

  A polished silver dragon stood on the nightstand, his head back, his tail flashing. The wick between his open jaws announced that he would breathe fire. She had one of those pretty mirrored vanities with a padded stool that Nash had always considered intensely feminine. He could imagine her sitting there, running the jewel-crusted silver-backed brush through her hair, or anointing her skin with the creams or lotions from one of the colorful glass pots that stood on it, winking in the sunlight.

  Unable to resist, he picked one up, removing the long crystal top and sniffing. At that moment she was so much in the room with him, he could almost see her. That was the complexity and power of a woman's magic.

  Reluctantly he recapped the bottle and set it aside. Damn it, he didn't want to wait through the day for her. He didn't want to wait an hour.

  Easy, Kirkland, he lectured himself. She'd only been gone five minutes. He was acting like a man besotted. Or bewitched. That thought set off a niggling little doubt that he frowned over for a moment, then shoved aside. He wasn't under any kind of spell. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was in complete control of his actions. It was just that the room held so much of her, and being in it made him want.

  Frowning, he ran his fingers through a pile of smooth colored stones she kept in a bowl. If he was obsessing about her, that, too, could be explained. She wasn't an ordinary woman. After what he'd seen, with what he knew, it was natural for him to think about her more often than he might about someone else. After all, the supernatural was his forte. Morgana was living proof that the extraordinary existed in an ordinary world.

  She was an incredible lover. Generous, free, outrageously responsive. She had humor and wit and brains, as well as an agile body. That combination alone could make a man sit up and beg. When you added the fairy dust, she became downright irresistible.

  Plus, she'd helped him with his story. The more Nash thought about it, the more he was certain the script was his best work to date.

  But what if she hated it? The idea jumped into his mind like a warty toad and had him staring into space. Just because they had shared a bed, and something else too intangible for him to name, didn't mean she would understand or appreciate his wo
rk.

  What the hell had he been thinking of, giving it to her to read before he'd polished it?

  Terrific, he thought in disgust and bent to snatch up his jeans. Now he had that to worry about for the next several hours. As he strode off to shower, Nash wondered how he had gotten in so deep that a woman could drive him crazy in so many ways.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was more than four hours later before Morgana had a chance for a cup of tea and a moment alone. Customers, phone calls, arriving shipments, had kept her busy enough that she'd had time enough only to glance at the first page or two of Nash's script.

  What she saw intrigued her enough to have her resenting each interruption. Now she heated water and nibbled on tart green grapes. Mindy was in the shop, waiting on two college students. Since both students were male, Morgana knew Mindy wouldn't need any help.

  With a sigh, she brewed the tea, set it to steep, then settled down with Nash's script.

  An hour later, she'd forgotten the tea that grew cold in the pot. Fascinated, she flipped back to page one and began all over again. It was brilliant, she thought, and felt a surge of pride that the man she loved could create something so rich, so clever, so absorbing.

  Talented, yes. She'd known he was talented. His movies had always entertained and impressed her. But she'd never read a screenplay before. Somehow she'd thought it would be no more than an outline, the bare bones that a director, actors, technicians, would flesh out for an audience. But this was so rich in texture, so full of life and spirit, that it didn't seem like words on paper at all. She could already see, and hear, and feel.

  She imagined that, when those extra layers were added by the actors, the camera, the director, Nash might very well have the film of the decade on his hands.

  It stunned her that the man she thought of as charming, a bit cocky and often full of himself had something like this inside him. Then again, it had rocked her the night before to discover that he had such deep wells of tenderness.