by Ann Macela
Lily-livered, sniveling coward.
She smiled to herself. She knew what she had to do—the same as with her brother when he wouldn’t tell her important information.
Ambush him.
Not until he had reached the sanctuary of his suite did Marcus allow himself to react. Once inside, however, he began cursing and pacing, using every foul word he could think of over and over until he ran out of breath and vocabulary. How could he be so stupid not to have recognized what happened when the two of them came together? Because he’d been so afraid he’d raped her that he hadn’t seen the larger picture.
Soul mates! He and Gloriana were, in fact, soul mates!
Despite all his determination never to have one, all his care never to be even in the vicinity of eligible female practitioners, what had happened? A catastrophe.
No matter that having sex with Gloriana had been the most powerful sexual experience of his adult life. No matter that when he had been sitting there talking about the situation, he’d felt the most powerful yearning to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be all right.
Because it wouldn’t. It couldn’t.
He knew himself. He could fight his true nature and his family history, but he knew how it would all come out. Glori—vibrant, beautiful, funny, intriguing Glori—would be more than disappointed in him as a lifelong companion. She’d be crushed, sad, confused, and frustrated. She’d end up hating him, soul mate or not.
Better to refuse to go along with the imperative before they were deeper in the emotional morass. She’d get over him. The practitioner gods would surely grant her another mate.
Another mate. That meant another man would be the one to hold her, to kiss her, to take her to bed, to wake up beside her, to father her children.
Those thoughts almost doubled him over, and not from imperative-caused pain. No, more from an intense ache of jealousy and a mighty surge of possessiveness. She was his, damn it.
No! Stop thinking! These thoughts lead to madness. Get out of here before you do go crazy!
Yes. He’d leave tonight. Go home, where he was in control of his life—and alone.
He stalked into the bedroom, dragged out his luggage, and threw his things into it. He almost laughed at the thought of how his parents would react to his haphazard packing. Within five minutes he was on his way to the concierge. There had to be a plane out of Chicago tonight. Hell, the place had two airports. He’d go to Dallas, Houston, anyplace with a connecting flight to Austin. He’d spend the night in the airport if he had to.
On the plane early the next morning, after a night spent pacing the halls of O’Hare Airport, Marcus tried to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, it wasn’t easy. His stubborn brain kept reliving those moments with Gloriana, their passionate kisses, the mutual resonance of their magic centers, the absolute thrill and wonder and, yes, satiation of their lovemaking.
No, not lovemaking. Sex. That’s all it was.
His body and his magic center said differently, of course, and he was doubly glad he didn’t have a seatmate as his unrepentant cock responded to his thoughts.
George and Evelyn were surprised to see him when he went to pick up Samson, but he managed to mumble something about not feeling well, and they let him go without asking real questions.
Marcus took Samson for a walk, then headed for bed. Once lying there, he decided he could survive the coming week and the next debate. He wouldn’t have to see her again until Saturday. There’d be lots of people around. If he was never alone with her, he didn’t have to worry about a repeat of their previous “togetherness.” Furthermore he would not, definitely refused to, think of her or their problem until he saw her Saturday night. That determination relieved some of his stress, and he was able to concentrate on math proofs until he fell asleep.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
“Come on, girl,” Gloriana called to Delilah as she walked out of her house on Wednesday morning, “Let’s go to town. You can visit with Samson while I take on his master.”
The basenji chortled at her and climbed into the car.
Gloriana strapped the hound into the harness she’d ordered on the Internet—a duplicate of the one Marcus had used on Samson. She headed for the highway singing along with Shania Twain on the radio, “I’m Gonna Getcha Good!” Delilah yodeled a couple of times in accompaniment.
As she drove to Austin, she plotted her moves. She was mad, damn mad, totally, thoroughly, completely mad. She didn’t have words for her anger at Marcus Forscher, not to mention the entire soul-mate process.
At Marcus for his obstinate refusal to discuss the reasons behind his rejection of a soul mate. How else were they going to get to the bottom of their dilemma? He was the one who said, “Let’s look at the situation scientifically.” Scientifically? Hah!
She was also angry at the soul-mate process, particularly the SMI, for reducing her mind to such mush that she hardly knew what she—or he—was doing when she lost her virginity. That was one event at which she had wanted to be fully present, mind and body.
Oh, the memories of what happened had come back to her, and she’d relived every touch, every kiss, everything over and over, but that wasn’t the same as being consciously there in the moment. It certainly wasn’t the same without Marcus being there, touching her, kissing her, everythinging her.
She hadn’t discussed the soul-mate revelations—especially not their mating—with her parents. Her mother had given her a couple of questioning looks. Thank goodness she hadn’t broached the subject beyond asking how Marcus had been at the debate. Gloriana hadn’t called Lulabelle, either. After all, what could they do? This mess was between her and Marcus.
Soul mates. She’d thought long and hard about the concept in general and her soul mate in particular. Okay, there was the phenomenon—practitioners always found their soul mates—and the imperative, which made sure they got together and “nudged” when they dawdled.
She’d thought about her brother and sister and how they’d gone through the process of finding and accepting their mates. Leaving all the sameness between mates aside, it appeared that lust—an enormous, all-consuming physical attraction—was the trigger.
Overwhelming desire certainly captured a person’s attention; she was proof positive of that. Despite her mother’s explanation and Daria’s reports, she had still been unprepared for the intensity, confusion, and power of her feelings.
Maybe a warlock—or any man, for that matter—needed lust to fix his attention on a woman. Despite his protests, Marcus had given every indication of being fixated on her. All those looks from him had been sexual interest, not intellectual derision. Attraction, not repulsion. Desire, not disdain.
All well and good, but what about witches, specifically herself? The kind of astonishing physical attraction between them was new and exciting to her. She’d dated in high school and college from time to time, nothing intense, more because everybody else was doing it and she wanted to go to the parties. She and her boyfriend had usually parted amicably when she lost interest—or he pushed too hard for sex. The imperative at work, she knew, although at a much lower activity level.
For the present and the future, however … what did she want?
Love. She wanted to love and be loved as she’d seen with every practitioner couple she knew. All her family, parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins, good friends, all were surrounded by, immersed in love.
A mate. She wanted a mate to share her life with, to have children with, to grow old with.
Children. Daria’s announcement must have started her own biological clock ticking—or awakened yearnings she was unaware she had.
What did she want? She wanted It All.
Her center hummed happily when she recognized and accepted the truth of her decision.
She shook her head at herself. A few weeks ago, none of these wants ever crossed her mind. Now they consumed her attention, her life. She should have expected such a reaction
from Daria’s experience. Indeed, their mother had told them that the imperative discouraged witches from thinking about their mates and the consequences until they met them.
The situation was almost laughable. Daria had complained bitterly about the “arranged marriage” aspect of the phenomenon. Having seen the results for both her sister and brother, Gloriana had to admit the compelling attractiveness of the situation, however it came about.
So, what was she going to do?
If Marcus was her fate, so be it. She’d accept him. Whether it was the soul-mate phenomenon itself or its enforcing imperative or both pushing them together, it didn’t matter. Not one iota of fact or fiction existed to suggest that either made a mistake in the pairing. Not ever in all of practitioner history. Soul mates were soul mates. Period.
Could she have It All? Wasn’t It All part of the soulmate definition? Would It All come naturally if she and Marcus spent more time with each other? Got to know each other? Came to love each other? Her father always said being soul mates got better all the time. All the evidence answered yes to her questions. She needed to have faith in the process.
Was she in love with him already? Well, she wasn’t sure about that. She didn’t really know him, certainly didn’t understand him. They’d had very little time together, no chance to share everyday life, to discover those little things about each other that were lovable. They certainly hadn’t been on a simple date. She’d been almost afraid of being with him, but more because of the attraction she’d been feeling and the misunderstanding of what he was thinking than their dispute about magic.
Marcus. What about her soul mate? What was he really like? He had many positive qualities. He was intelligent. He was honest—he’d been up front with the fact that he didn’t want a soul mate, even if he wouldn’t tell her why. She’d assume he had loyalty and honor since she couldn’t imagine being paired with someone who didn’t. Dedication to his career, too. As a fellow professor, he certainly understood the demands and needs of the job, and she wouldn’t have to explain when she spent hours in the greenhouse. Conversely, she’d understand when he did whatever he did to create new theorems or equations or proofs.
What about negatives? Stubbornness, the tendency to be overbearing, the inability or refusal—take your pick—to hear what she was really saying, the refusal to discuss love or any emotion. Wait, couldn’t those traits be applied to all men? Oh, the burden of having to live with them.
Then there was the practice of magic, of course. In the discussions, the majority of the audience seemed to be reaching an equilibrium whereby all forms of practice were accepted, with none in the forefront. What she’d been afraid of, forcing one style or another on young practitioners, wasn’t going to happen. She might have been wrong to think his formula would be that forced style, but the Traddies weren’t right to exclude the new, either.
They did practice magic totally differently. Maybe they couldn’t understand how each other’s talents worked. Did that really matter? Talents were individual, tailored to each vocation or profession. No one could practice them all. She couldn’t create an energy weapon the way a Sword could. Why should she be able to do or need to understand what Marcus did, and vice versa? She’d been overreacting to think they had to practically be able to cast each other’s spells.
One other thing: his “Mr. Perfect” appearance. He had to be immaculate in everything—his surroundings, his work habits, his lifestyle. She was unable to remain spotless when working with plants and was perfectly happy to live and work in a mild chaos—fairly clean, but cluttered. They’d have to arrive at a middle point somehow.
Could she count on a sense of humor? She hadn’t seen much evidence. On the other hand, maybe he did have one. How else could he live with a basenji?
One matter, the most important one, was absolutely, positively clear. Trust. If they didn’t trust each other, they couldn’t have It All.
Trust. A little word with a big meaning. Soul mates knew neither would let the other down, they could rely on each other in all circumstances, they could express and expose their darkest secrets, deepest longings, craziest ideas, and still be loved unconditionally.
Did she trust Marcus? Oh, that was a very good question. She must, to some extent, or even the SMI couldn’t have forced her to have sex.
Did he trust her? No, not even as much as she did him.
Did he trust himself? An interesting question—yet another to which she had no answer.
Everything came down to his refusal to talk. If he wouldn’t share himself, his one big secret, “his business,” at the crux of his obstinacy, and get over it, she wouldn’t have a true soul mate, wouldn’t have that oneness, that unity of spirit, body, and soul that she not only wanted, but needed. Not only desired, but craved.
Whatever “his business” was, it had to be important and extremely personal to him. Some powerful aspect of the phenomenon that turned him against the concept and the reality. From his reactions, getting him to open up would be difficult. She refused to think it impossible.
After all her thinking, what did she have to do? What was her plan to make him tell her why he was adamantly against having a soul mate?
Take him by storm. Move through his defenses and reduce them to rubble. Leave him no recourse. Laying on a little guilt trip wouldn’t hurt, either.
How nice that the best, the most effective way to accomplish that objective would also take care of her anger with the process itself.
She started laughing while the plan unfolded in her head. Delilah looked at her curiously, and Gloriana gave the dog’s head a rub. “You take care of Samson, and I’ll take care of his master.”
Gloriana pulled up to Marcus’s house about eleven. The homes here hidden behind their two- or three-car garages and minimal front yards. On both sides of the street, they rose two or more stories to take advantage of the vista. Given the slope of the ground in these hills above the Colorado River, he probably had a very nice view out his back windows.
The cream-colored stucco building appeared as she had expected to find in the neighborhood and from his uptight personality—contemporary, sleek, austere. The landscaping made effective use of native plants that wouldn’t need watering or much gardening effort by the owner. That’s right, he said he’d had it professionally done.
With few windows facing the street, the house also reminded her of a castle fortress—and its owner, a medieval baron determined to protect himself from the rabble hordes. She knew he was here; he wasn’t at his office, and this had to be the only other place he thought he could retreat from the world.
“Look out, Marcus,” she said while she and Delilah walked down the flagstone path toward the dark gray door, “here come the barbarians.”
After making sure her full, knee-length, red-and-blue-striped skirt hung correctly and her scoop-neck, red blouse was buttoned straight, she rang the bell. Samson yodeled from the other side, and Delilah answered him. She heard Marcus telling him to calm down, and the door opened.
Her adversary, her nemesis, her mate stood there in jeans and a T-shirt with both panic and shock on his face. The rest of him, however, was perfect, pressed, and shaven. Even his hair was combed. Of course.
“What … what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to see you. We are going to talk, Marcus Forscher, whether you want to or not.” As she spoke, she poked him in the chest with her finger until he backed up and she and Delilah could enter. The dogs took off for the back of the house.
Gloriana breezed past him and walked down the entryway, past stairs on the left both up and down, past a dining room on her right, and into a large living room stretching the width of the house and with windows overlooking the hills. She noted two curly tails disappearing down the staircase to a lower level. She dropped her purse on the beige sofa and looked around.
Yep, the interior met her expectations, given the style of the house—pale hardwood floors, white walls, a minimal amount of furnitur
e, earth tones in the upholstery and scattered rugs, black and white art photos instead of paintings. Spotlessly clean. No mementos, family pictures, little collectibles. Absolutely no clutter, not even a dog chewie. Did anyone live here?
Then she spotted it on a window ledge, and it drew her immediately. A small variegated ivy in a dark green plastic pot. The only plant in the place, from the looks of things. The kind you buy in the grocery store. Automatically, she stuck a finger in its dirt.
Of course. Dry as a bone. She picked it up and turned back to Marcus. He had closed the door and come into the room, but he still looked shocked—and grim. He said nothing.
She spied the kitchen to her left, so she carried the ivy there and watered it. Nice dark gray granite counters, she noted. She opened the white cabinet doors until she found his dishes—white with a thin black rim. What did the man have against color? She preferred her Fiesta Ware. She took out a small plate and set the ivy on it and the plate on the wide windowsill behind the sink. “There you are,” she told the plant. “You’ve had a long drink, and you’ll be fine.”
Eyeing her warily, Marcus was standing in the kitchen doorway. Saying not a word, he backed up to let her into the living room. She gave him a brilliant smile when she passed him.
She roamed around the room, perusing the books on a shelf, studying the large landscape photo—Ansel Adams?—above the fireplace, and fluffing one of the dark brown throw pillows on the beige leather couch. Let him fill the silence.
“What are you doing here?” he asked again.
Finally the man spoke! She faced him, put her hands on her hips, and grinned. “I’m here because we have to talk. We are going to talk. I am not giving you a choice. But first…”
She sauntered toward him, ran the last four steps, and leaped on him. He staggered but caught her. His arms closed around her. Oh, yeah, it felt good.
Legs wrapped around his hips, she grabbed hold of his hair and looked him in the eyes. “Hello, soul mate.”