"Morgana." He held her still. "I said I loved you. I've never said that to anyone before. Not to anyone in my life before you. It was hard the first time, but I think it might get easier as we go." She looked away again. Her mother would have recognized it as evasion. Nash saw it as dismissal. "You said you loved me."
His voice tightened, and so did his grip.
"Yes, I did." She met his eyes again. "And I do."
He gathered her close again to rest his brow on hers. "It feels good," he said in a wondering voice. "I didn't know how damn good it would feel to love someone, to have her love me back.
We can go from here, Morgana. I know I'm not a prize, and I'll probably mess up. I'm not used to having someone there for me.
Or for being there for someone else. But I'll give it all I've got.
That's a promise."
She went very still. "What are you saying?"
He stepped back, nervous all over again, and stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'm asking you to marry me. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
He swore. "Look, I want you to marry me. I'm not doing a good job of asking. If you want to wait until I've set the stage, gotten down on one knee with a ring in my pocket, okay. It's just- I love you so much, and I didn't know I could feel this way, be this way. I want a chance to show you."
"I don't need a stage, Nash. And I wish it could be simple."
His fingers clenched. "You don't want to marry me."
"I want a life with you. Oh, yes, I want that very much. But it isn't only myself you'd be taking."
For a moment, he was baffled. Then his face cleared with a smile. "You mean your family, and the, ah, Donovan legacy. Babe, you're everything I want, and more. The fact that the woman I love is a witch just adds some interest to the situation."
Touched, she lifted a hand to his cheek. "Nash, you're perfect. Absolutely perfect for me. But it's not only that you'd be taking on." Her eyes stayed level on his. "I'm carrying your child."
His face went utterly blank. "What?"
She didn't need to repeat it. She watched as he staggered back and dropped onto the rock where she had sat earlier.
He gulped in air before he managed to speak again. "A baby? You're pregnant? You're having a child?"
Outwardly calm, she nodded. "That about sums it up." She gave him a moment to speak. When he didn't, she forced herself to go on. "You were very clear about not wanting a family, so I realize this changes things, and-"
"You knew." He had to swallow to make his voice rise above the sound of wind and sea. "That day, the last day, you knew. You'd come to tell me."
"Yes, I knew. I'd come to tell you."
On unsteady legs, he got up to walk to the verge of the water. He remembered the way she'd looked, the things he'd said. He'd remember for a long time. Was it any wonder she'd left him that way, keeping the secret inside her?
"You think I don't want the baby?"
Morgana moistened her lips. "I understand you'd have doubts. This wasn't planned by either of us." She stopped, appalled. "I didn't plan it."
Eyes fierce, he whipped back to her. "I don't often make the same mistake twice, and certainly not with you. When?"
She folded her hands over her belly. "Before Christmas. The child was conceived that first night, on the spring equinox."
"Christmas,'' he repeated. And thought of a red bike, of cookies baking, of laughter and a family that had nearly been his. A family that could be his. She was offering something he'd never had, something he'd wished for only in secret.
"You said I was free," he said carefully. "Free of you, and everything we'd made together. You meant the baby."
Her eyes darkened, and her voice was strong and beautiful. "This child is loved, is wanted. This child is not a mistake, but a gift. I would rather it be mine alone than to risk that for one instant of its life it would not feel cherished."
He wasn't sure he could speak at all, but when he did, the words came straight from the heart. "I want the baby, and you, and everything we made together."
Through a mist of tears she studied him. "Then you have only to ask."
He walked back to her, laid his hand over where hers rested. "Give me a chance" was all he said.
Her lips curved when his moved to meet them. "We've been waiting for you a long time."
"I'm going to be a father." He said it slowly, testingly, then let out a whoop and scooped her off her feet. "We made a baby."
She threw her arms around his neck and laughed. "Yes."
"We're a family."
"Yes."
He kissed her long and hard before he began to walk. "If we do a good job with the first, we can have more, right?"
"Absolutely. Where are we going?"
"I'm taking you back and putting you to bed. With me."
"Sounds like a delightful idea, but you don't have to carry me."
"Every bloody step. You're having a baby. My baby. I can see it. Interior scene, day. A sunny room with pale blue walls."
"Yellow."
"Okay. With bright yellow walls. Under the window stands a gleaming antique crib, with one of those funny mobiles hanging over it. There's a sound of gurgling, and a tiny, pudgy hand lifts up to grab at one of the circling-" He stopped, his face whipping around to Morgana's. "Oh, boy."
"What? What is it?"
"It just hit me. What are the chances? I mean how likely is it that the baby will, you know, inherit your talent?"
Smiling, she curled a lock of his hair around her finger. "You mean, what are the chances of the baby being a witch? Very high. The Donovan genes are very strong." Chuckling, she nuzzled his neck. "But I bet she has your eyes."
"Yeah." He took another step and found himself grinning. "I bet she does."
--2 Entranced (09-1992)--
Prologue
He understood his power early. What coursed through his blood and made him what he was did not have to be explained to him. Nor did he have to be told that this gift was one not possessed by everyone.
He could see.
The visions were not always pleasant, but they were always fascinating. When they came-even when they came to a small child whose legs were still unsteady-he accepted them as easily as he accepted the sun's rising each morning.
Often his mother would crouch on the floor with him, her face close to his, her eyes searching his eyes. Mixed with her great love was a hope that he would always accept the gift, and that he would never be hurt by it.
Though she knew better, on both counts.
Who are you? He could hear her thoughts as clearly as if she had spoken aloud. Who will you be?
They were questions he couldn't answer. Even then he understood that it was more difficult to see into yourself than to see into others.
As time passed, the gift did not prevent him from racing and running and teasing his young cousins. Though often, quite often, he strained against its limitations and tried for more, it did not keep him from enjoying an ice-cream cone on a summer afternoon, or from laughing at cartoons on a Saturday morning.
He was a normal, active, mischievous boy with a sharp, sometimes devious mind, a strikingly handsome face set off by hypnotic gray-blue eyes, and a full mouth that was quick to smile.
He went through all the stages that lead a boy toward manhood. The scraped knees and the broken bones, the rebellions large and small, the first jumpy heartbeat at the smile of a pretty girl. Like all children, he grew into an adult, moved away from his parents' domain and chose his own.
And the power grew, as he did.
He considered his life a well-adjusted and comfortable one.
And he accepted, as he always had, the simple fact that he was a witch.
CHAPTER 1
She dreamed of a man who was dreaming of her. But he wasn't sleeping. She could see, with a perfect clarity that was extremely undreamlike, that he was standing by a wide, dark window, with his arms relaxed by his sides. But his face was very tense, very purpose
ful. And his eyes- They were so deep, so unrelenting. Gray, she thought as she twisted in sleep. But not quite gray. There were hints of blue, as well. The color of them reminded her of rocks hacked out of a high cliff one moment, and of the soft, calm waters of a lake the next.
Strange-how strange-she knew that his face was taut and tensed, but she couldn't see it. Just those eyes, those fascinating, disturbing eyes.
And she knew he was thinking of her. Not just thinking of her, but somehow seeing her. As if she had walked up to the other side of that glass, stood there looking back at him through the wide windowpane. Somehow she was certain that if she lifted a hand to that glass her fingers would pass right through it until they found his.
If she chose to.
Instead, she thrashed, tangling the sheets and muttering in her sleep. Even in dreams Mel Sutherland didn't care for the illogical. Life had rules, very basic rules. She firmly believed you were better off following them.
So she didn't reach for the glass, or for him. She rolled, almost violently, knocking a pillow to the floor and willing the dream away.
It faded, and, both relieved and disappointed, she dropped deeper into a dreamless sleep.
A few hours later, with the night vision tucked away in her subconscious, she snapped awake at the clattering bell of the Mickey Mouse alarm clock at her bedside. One expert slap silenced it. There was no danger that she would snuggle down in the bed and slide back into sleep. Mel's mind was as regulated as her body.
She sat up, indulging in one huge yawn as she dragged her fingers through her tousled cap of dark blond hair. Her eyes, a rich, mossy green she'd inherited from a father she couldn't remember, were blurry for only a moment. Then they focused on the twisted sheets.
Rough night, she thought, kicking her legs free of them. And why not? It could hardly have been expected that she'd sleep like a baby, not with what she had to do today. After blowing out one long breath, she plucked a pair of gym shorts from the floor and yanked them on under the T-shirt she'd slept in. Five minutes later, she was stepping out into the soft-aired morning for her daily three-mile jog.
As she went out, she kissed the tips of her fingers and tapped them against the front door. Because it was her place. Hers. And even after four years she didn't take it for granted.
It wasn't much, she thought as she limbered up with a few stretches. Just a little stucco building tucked between a Laundromat and a struggling accounting firm. But then, she didn't need much.
Mel ignored the whistle from the car that passed, its driver grinning appreciatively at her long, leanly muscled legs. She didn't jog for her looks. She jogged because routine exercise disciplined the mind and the body. A private investigator who allowed either to become sluggish would find herself in trouble. Or unemployed. Mel didn't intend to be either.
She started out at an easy pace, enjoying the way her shoes slapped the sidewalk, delighted by the pearly glow in the eastern sky that signaled the start of a beautiful day. It was August, and she thought of how miserably hot it would be down in L.A. But here, in Monterey, there was perpetual spring. No matter what the calendar said, the air was as fresh as a rosebud.
It was too early for there to be much traffic. Here in the downtown area it would be a rare thing for her to pass another jogger. If she'd chosen any of the beaches, it would have been a different matter. But Mel preferred to run alone.
Her muscles began to warm. A thin layer of sweat gleamed healthily on her skin. She increased her pace slightly, falling into a familiar rhythm that had become as automatic as breathing.
For the first mile, she kept her mind empty, letting herself observe. A car with a faulty muffler rattled by, with no more than a token hesitation at a stop sign.
An '82 Plymouth sedan, dark blue. The mental list was just to keep in practice. Dented driver's door. California license Able Charlie Robert 2289.
Someone was lying facedown on the grass of the park. Even as Mel broke her stride, he sat up, stretched and switched on a portable radio.
College student hitchhiking cross-country, she decided, picking up her pace again even as she made a note of his backpack- blue, with an American flag on the flap- and his hair color- brown- and- Name That Tune, she thought as the music began to fade behind her.
Bruce Springsteen. "Cover Me."
Not too shabby, Mel thought with a grin as she rounded a corner.
She could smell bread from the bakery. A fine, yeasty good-morning scent. And roses. She drew them in-though she would have suffered torture before admitting she had a weakness for flowers. Trees moved gently in the early breeze, and if she concentrated, really concentrated, she could just scent the sea.
And it was good, so very good, to feel strong and aware and alone. It was good to know these streets and to know she belonged here. That she could stay here. That there would be no midnight rambles in a battered station wagon at her mother's whim.
Time to go, Mary Ellen. Time to head out. I've just got a feeling we should head north for a while.
And so they would go, she and the mother she adored, the mother who would always be more of a child than the daughter who huddled on the ripped and taped front seat beside her. The headlights would cut down the road, leading the way to a new place a new school, new people.
But they would never settle, never have time to become a part of anything but the road. Soon her mother would get what she always called "Those itchy feet." And off they would go again.
Why had it always felt as if they were running away, not running to?
That, of course, was all over. Alice Sutherland had herself a cozy travel trailer-which would take Mel another twenty-six months to pay off-and she was happy as a clam, bopping from state to state and adventure to adventure.
As for Mel, she was sticking. True, L.A. hadn't worked out, but she'd gotten a taste of what it was like to put down roots. And she'd had two very frustrating and very educational years on the LAPD. Two years that had taught her that law enforcement was just her cup of tea, even if writing parking tickets and filling out forms was not.
So she had moved north and opened Sutherland Investigations. She still filled out forms-often by the truckload-but they were her forms.
She'd reached the halfway point of her run and was circling back. As always, she felt that quick rush of satisfaction at the knowledge that her body responded so automatically. It hadn't always been so-not when she was a child, too tall, too gangly, with elbows and knees that just begged to be banged and scraped. It had taken time and discipline, but she was twenty-eight now, and she'd gotten her body under control. Yes, sir. It had never been a disappointment to Mel that she hadn't bloomed and rounded. Slim and sleek was more efficient. And the long, coltish legs that had once invited names like Stretch and Beanpole were now strong, athletic and-she could admit privately-worth a second look.
It was then that she heard the baby crying. It was a fussy, impatient sound that bounded through an open window of the apartment building beside her. Her mood, buoyed by the run, plummeted.
The baby. Rose's baby. Sweet, pudgy-cheeked David.
Mel continued to run. The habit was too ingrained to be broken. But her mind filled with images.
Rose, harmless, slightly dippy Rose, with her fuzzy red hair and her easy smile. Even with Mel's natural reserve, it had been impossible to refuse her friendship.
Rose worked as a waitress in the little Italian restaurant two blocks from Mel's office. It had been easy to fall into a casual conversation-particularly since Rose did most of the talking-over a plate of spaghetti or a cup of cappuccino.
Mel remembered admiring the way Rose hustled trays, even though her pregnant belly strained against her apron. And she remembered Rose telling her how happy she and her Stan were to be expecting their first child.
Mel had even been invited to the baby shower, and though she'd been certain she would feel awkward and out of place at such a gathering, she'd enjoyed listening to the oohs and aahs over the tiny c
lothes and the stuffed animals. She'd taken a liking to Stan, too, with his shy eyes and slow smiles.
When David had been born, eight months ago, she'd gone to the hospital to visit. As she'd stared at the babies sleeping, bawling or wriggling in their clear-sided cribs, she'd understood why people prayed and struggled and sacrificed to have children.
They were so perfect. So perfectly lovely.
When she'd left, she was happy for Rose and Stan. And lonelier than she'd ever been in her life.
It had become a habit for her to drop by their apartment from time to time with a little toy for David. As an excuse, of course, an excuse to play with him for an hour. She'd fallen more than a little in love with him, so she hadn't felt foolish exclaiming over his first tooth, or being astounded when he learned to crawl.
Then that frantic phone call two months before. Rose's voice, shrill and nearly incoherent.
"He's gone. He's gone. He's gone."
Mel had made the mile from her office to the Merrick home in record time. The police had already been there. Stan and Rose had been clutched together on the sofa like two lost souls in a choppy sea. Both of them crying.
David was gone. Snatched off his playpen mat as he napped in the shade on the little patch of grass just outside the rear door of their first-floor apartment.
Now two months had passed, and the playpen was still empty.
Everything Mel had learned, everything she'd been trained to do and her instincts had taught her, hadn't helped get David back.
Now Rose wanted to try something else, something so absurd that Mel would have laughed-if not for the hard glint of determination in Rose's usually soft eyes. Rose didn't care what Stan said, what the police said, what Mel said. She would try anything, anything, to get her child back.
Even if that meant going to a psychic.
As they swept down the coast to Big Sur in Mel's cranky, primer-coated MG, she took one last shot at talking sense to Rose.
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