"There." The screen jiggled, then blipped and brought up new text. "Sit down and read it."
Since nothing would have delighted her more, she did as he asked. It only took a few lines for her to understand. "It's a sequel to Myor." Thrilled, she turned her face up to his. "That's wonderful. You've written another. Have you finished it?"
"If you'd read it you'd see for yourself."
"Yes, yes." This time it was she who waved him away as she settled down to be entertained. "Oh! Kidnapped. She's been kidnapped and the evil warlock's put a spell on her to strip her of her powers."
"Witch," he muttered, wincing a little. "A male witch is still a witch."
"Really? Well- He's locked all her gifts up in a magic box. It's because he's in love with her, isn't it?"
"What?"
"It has to be," Rowan insisted. "Brinda's so beautiful and strong and full of light. He'd want her, and this is his way of forcing her to belong to him."
Considering, Liam slipped his hands into his pockets. "Is it now?"
"It must be. Yes, here's the handsome warlock-I mean witch who'll do battle with the evil one to get the box of power. It's wonderful."
She all but put her nose to the screen, annoyed she hadn't thought to put on her reading glasses. "Just look at all the traps and spells he'll have to fight just to get to her. Then when he frees her, she won't have any magic to help. Just her wits," Rowan murmured, delighted with the story. "They'll face all this together, risk destruction. Wow, The Valley of Storms. Sounds ominous, passionate. This is what was missing from the first one."
More stunned than insulted, he gaped at her. "Excuse me?"
"It had such wonderful magic and adventure, but no romance. I'm so glad you've added it this time. Rilan will fall madly in love with Brinda, and she with him as they work together, face all these dangers."
Her eyes gleamed as she leaned back and refocused them on Liam. "Then when they defeat the evil witch, find the box, it should be their love that breaks the spell, opens it and gives Brinda back her powers. So they'll live happily ever after."
She smiled a bit hesitantly at the shuttered look in his eyes. "Won't they?"
"Aye, they will." With a few adjustments to the story line, he decided. But that was his task, and for later. By Finn, the woman had it right. "What do you think of the magic dragons in the Land of Mirrors."
"Magic dragons?"
"Here." He bent down, leaning close and manually scrolling to the segment. "Read this," he said and his breath feathered warm across her cheek. "And tell me your thoughts."
She had to adjust her thoughts to block out the quick jump of her pulse, but dutifully focused on the words and read. "Fabulous. Just fabulous. I can just see them flying away on the back of a dragon, over the red waters of the sea, and the mist-covered hills."
"Can you? Show me how you see it-just that. Draw it for me." He pulled her sketchbook out of her bag. "I haven't got a clear image of it."
"No? I don't know how you could write this without it." She picked up a pencil and began to draw. "The dragon should be magnificent. Fierce and beautiful, with wonderful gold wings and eyes like rubies. Long and sleek and powerful," she murmured as she sketched. "Wild and dangerous."
It was precisely what he'd wanted, Liam noted as the drawing came to life under her hand. No tame pet, no captured oddity. She had it exactly: the proud, fierce head, the long powerful body with its wide sweep of wings, the slashing tail, the feel of great movement.
"Do another now." Impatient, he tore off the first sketch, set it aside. "Of the sea and hills."
"All right." She supposed a rough drawing might help him get a more solid visual for his story. Closing her eyes a moment, she brought the image into her mind, that wide, shimmering sea with cresting waves, the jagged rocks that speared silver out of thick swirling mists, the glint of sunlight gilding the edges, and the dark shadow of mountains beyond.
When she was done with it, he ripped that page away as well, demanded she do another. This time of Yilard, the evil witch.
She had great fun with that, grinning to herself as she worked. He should be handsome, she decided. Cruelly so. No wart-faced gnome with a hunched back, but a tall, dashing man with flowing hair and hard dark eyes. She dressed him in robes, imagined they would be red, like a prince.
"Why didn't you make him ugly?" Liam asked her.
"Because he wouldn't be. And if he were, it might seem as if Brinda refused him just because of his looks. She didn't-it was his heart she rejected. The darkness of it that you'd see in the eyes."
"But the hero, he'd be more handsome."
"Of course. We'd expect, even demand that. But he won't be one of those girlishly pretty men with curly gold hair." Lost in the story, she tore off the page herself to begin another. "He'll be dark, dangerous, too. Brave certainly, but not without flaws. I like my heroes human. Still, he risked his life for Brinda, first for honor. And then for love."
She laughed a little as she leaned back from the sketch. "He looks a bit like you," she commented. "But why not? It's your story. Everyone wants to be the hero of their own story after all." She smiled at him. "And it's a wonderful story, Liam. Can I read the rest?"
"Not yet." There were changes to be made now, he thought, and switched off the screen.
"Oh." Disappointment rang in her voice, and fed his ego. "I just want to see what happens after they fly out of the Land Of Mirrors."
"If you do, you'll have to accept my proposition."
"Proposition?"
"A business one. Do the drawings for me. All of them. It's a great deal of work as most of the levels will be complex. I'll need an exacting amount of detail for the graphics, and I'm not easily satisfied."
She held up a hand. She wanted to stop him, to give herself time to find her voice. "You want me to draw the story?"
"It's not a simple matter. I'll require hundreds of sketches, all manner of scenes and angles."
"I don't have any experience."
"No?" He lifted her sketch of the dragon.
"I just tossed those off," she insisted, pushing to her feet with a sense of panic. "I didn't think."
"Is that the way of it?" Interesting. "Fine then, don't think, just draw."
She couldn't keep up, couldn't quite catch her breath. "You can't be serious."
"I'm very serious," he corrected, and laid the sketch down again. "Were you when you said you wanted to do what made you happy?"
"Yes." She was rubbing a hand over her heart, unaware of the movement.
"Then work with me on this if it pleases you.
You'll make the living you need. The Donovan Legacy will see to that part well enough. It's up to you, Rowan."
"Wait, just wait." She kept her hand up, turned away to walk to the window. The sky was still blue, she noted, the forest still green. And the wind blew with the same steady breath.
It was only her life that was changing. If she let it.
To do something she loved for a living? To use it freely and with pleasure and have it give back everything she needed? Could that be possible? Could it be real?
And it was then she realized it wasn't panic hot in her throat, pounding in her blood. It was excitement.
"Do you mean this? Do you think my sketches would suit your story?"
"I wouldn't have said so otherwise. The choice is yours."
"Mine," she said, quietly, like a breath. "Then, yes, it would please me very much." Her voice was slow, thoughtful. But when the full scope of his offer struck, she whirled around, her eyes brilliant. He saw those tiny silver lights in her eyes. "I'd love to work with you on it. When do we start?"
He took the hand she held out, clasped it firmly in his. "We just did."
Later, when Rowan was back in her kitchen celebrating with a glass of wine and a grilled cheese sandwich, she tried to remember if she'd ever been happier.
She didn't think so.
She'd never gotten into town for her books and her hou
se hunting, but that would come. Instead, she mused, she'd found an opening to a new career. One that thrilled her.
She had a chance now, a true and tangible chance for a new direction.
Not that Liam Donovan was going to make it easy. On the contrary, she decided, licking cheese from her thumb. He was demanding, occasionally overbearing and very, very much the perfectionist.
She'd done a full dozen sketches of the gnomes of Firth before he'd approved a single one.
And his approval, as she recalled, had been a grunt and a nod.
Well, that was fine. She didn't need to be patted on the head, didn't require effusive praise. She appreciated the fact that he expected her to be good, that he already assumed they'd make a successful team.
A team. She all but hugged the word to her. That made her part of something. After all these years of quiet wishing, she was telling stories. Not with words; she never had the right words. But with her drawings. The thing she loved most and had convinced herself over the years was an acceptable hobby and no more.
Now it was hers.
Still, she was in many ways a practical woman. She'd cut through her delight to the basics and had discussed terms with him. A pity she wasn't clever enough to have masked her sheer astonishment at the amount he'd told her she'd be paid for the work.
She'd have her house now, she thought, and giggling with glee poured herself a second glass of wine. She'd buy more art supplies, more books. Plants. She'd scout out wonderful antiques to furnish her new home.
And live happily ever after, she thought, toasting herself. Alone.
She shook off the little pang. She was getting used to alone. Enjoying alone. Maybe she still felt quick pulls and tugs of attraction for Liam, but she understood there would be no acting on them now that they were working together.
He'd certainly demonstrated no sign of wanting a more personal relationship now. If that stung the pride a bit, well, she was used to that, too.
She'd had a terrifying crush on the captain of the debate team her senior year in high school. She could clearly remember those heartbreaking flutters and thrills every time she caught sight of him. And how she'd wished, miserably, she could have been more outgoing, more brightly pretty, more confident, like the girl he'd gone steady with.
Then in college it had been an English major, a poet with soulful eyes and a dark view of life. She'd been sure she could inspire him, lift his soul. When after nearly a full semester he'd finally turned those tragic eyes her way, she'd fallen like a ripe plum from a branch.
She didn't regret it, even though after two short weeks, he'd turned those same tragic eyes to another woman. After all, she'd had two weeks of storybook romance, and had given up her virginity to a man with some sensitivity if no sense of monogamy.
It hadn't taken her long to realize that she hadn't loved him. She'd loved the idea of him. After that his careless rejection hadn't stung quite so deeply.
Men simply didn't find her- compelling, she decided. Mysterious or sexy. And unfortunately, the ones she was most attracted to always seemed to be all of that.
With Liam, he was all of that and more.
Of course, there had been Alan, she remembered. Sweet, steady, sensible Alan. Though she loved him, she'd known as soon as they'd become lovers that she'd never feel that wild thrill with him, that grinding need or that rush of longing.
She'd tried. Her parents had settled on him and it seemed logical that she would gradually fall in love, all the way in love, and make a comfortable life with him.
Hadn't it been the thought of that, a comfortable life, that had finally frightened her enough to make her run?
She could say now she'd been right to do so. It would have been wrong to settle for less than- anything, she supposed. For less than what she was finding now. Her place, her wants, her flaws and her talents.
They wouldn't understand-not yet. But in time they would. She was sure of it. After she was established in a home of her own, with a career of her own, they would see. Maybe, just maybe, they'd even be proud of her.
She glanced at the phone, considered, then shook her head. No, not yet. She wouldn't call her parents and tell them what she was doing. Not quite yet. She didn't want to hear the doubt, the concern, the carefully masked impatience in their voices, and spoil the moment.
It was such a lovely moment. So when she heard the knock on the front door, she sprang up. It was Liam, had to be Liam. And oh, that was perfect. He'd brought more work, and they could sit in the kitchen and discuss it, toy with it.
She'd make tea, she thought as she hurried through the cabin. A glass and a half of wine was enough if she wanted her mind perfectly clear. She'd had another idea about the Land of Mirrors and how that red sea should reflect when she'd walked home.
Eager to tell him, she opened the door. Her delighted smile of welcome shifted to blank shock.
"Rowan, you shouldn't open the door without seeing who it is first. You're much too trusting for your own good."
With the spring breeze blowing behind him, Alan stepped inside.
CHAPTER 7
Alan, what are you doing here?"
She knew immediately her tone had been short and unwelcoming-and very close to accusatory. She could see it in the surprised hurt on his face.
"It's been over three weeks, Rowan. We thought you might appreciate a little face-to-face. And frankly-" He shoved at the heavy sand-colored hair that fell over his forehead. "The tenor of your last phone call worried your parents."
"The tenor?" She bristled, and struggled to fix on a pleasant smile. "I don't see why. I told them I was fine and well settled in."
"Maybe that's what concerns them."
The worry in his earnest brown eyes brought her the first trickle of guilt. Then he took off his coat, laid it neatly over the banister and made a pocket of resentment open under the guilt. "Why would that be a concern?"
"None of us really knows what you're doing up here-or what you hope to accomplish by cutting yourself off from everyone."
"I've explained all of that." Now there was weariness along with the guilt. It was her cottage, damn it, her life. They were being invaded and questioned. But manners had her gesturing to a chair. "Sit down, please. Do you want anything? Tea, coffee?"
"No, I'm fine, but thanks." He did sit, looking stiffly out of place in his trim gray suit and starched white Oxford shirt. He still wore his conservatively striped, neatly Windsor-knotted tie. It hadn't occurred to him to so much as loosen it for the trip.
He scanned the room now as he settled in a chair by the quiet fire. From his viewpoint the cabin was rustic and entirely too isolated. Where was the culture-the museums, the libraries, the theaters? How could Rowan stand burying herself in the middle of the woods for weeks on end?
All she needed, he was certain, was a subtle nudge and she'd pack up and come back with him. Her parents had assured him of it.
He smiled at her, that crooked, slightly confused smile that always touched her heart. "What in the world do you do here all day?"
"I've told you in my letters, Alan." She sat across from him, leaned forward. This time, she was certain, she could make him understand. "I'm taking some time to think, to try to figure things out. I go for long walks, read, listen to music. I've been doing a lot of sketching. In fact-"
"Rowan, that's all well and good for a few days," he interrupted, the patience so thick in his voice her teeth went instantly on edge. "But this is hardly the place for you. It's easy enough to read between the lines of your letters that you've developed some sort of romantic attachment for solitude, for living in some little cottage in the middle of nowhere. But this is hardly Walden Pond."
He shot her that smile again, but this time it failed to soften her. "And I'm not Thoreau. Granted. But I'm happy here, Alan."
She didn't look happy, he noted. She looked irritable and edgy. Certain he could help her, he patted her hand. "For now, perhaps. For the moment. But what happens after a few
more weeks, when you realize it's all just a-" He gestured vaguely. "Just an interlude," he decided. "By then it'll be too late to get your position back at your school, to register for the summer courses you planned to take toward your doctorate. The lease is up for your apartment in two months."
Her hands were locked together in her lap now, to keep them from forming fists and beating in frustration on the arms of the chair. "It's not just an interlude. It's my life."
"Exactly." He beamed at her, as she had often seen him beam at a particularly slow student who suddenly grasped a thorny concept. "And your life is in San Francisco. Sweetheart, you and I both know you need more intellectual stimulation than you can find here. You need your studies, your students. What about your monthly book group? You have to be missing it. And the classes you planned to take? And you haven't mentioned a word about the paper you were writing."
"I haven't mentioned it because I'm not writing it. I'm not going to write it." Because it infuriated her that her fingers were beginning to tremble, she wrenched them apart and sprang up. "And I didn't plan on taking classes, other people planned that for me. The way they've planned every step I've ever taken. I don't want to study, I don't want to teach. I don't want any intellectual stimulation that I don't choose for myself. This is exactly what I've told you before, what I've told my parents before. But you simply refuse to hear."
He blinked, more than a little shocked at her sudden vehemence. "Because we care about you, Rowan. Very much." He rose as well. His voice was soothing now. She rarely lost her temper, but he understood when she did she threw up a wall no amount of logic could crack. You just had to wait her out.
"I know you care." Frustrated, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. "That's why I want you to hear, I want you to understand, or if understanding is too much, to accept. I'm doing what I need to do. And, Alan-" She dropped her hands, looked directly into his eyes. "I'm not coming back."
His face stiffened, and his eyes went cool as they did when he had outlined a logical premise and she disagreed with him. "I certainly hoped you'd had enough of this foolishness by now and would fly back with me tonight. I'm willing to find a hotel in the area for a few days, and wait."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 299