Collide & Burn

by Conn, Claudy

  Finally I managed a quiet, “Thank you.” Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. I should tell him that my grandmother spoke of him. I should say, yes, I had heard he was installed back at Dunraven this past year. What did I do? I went into business mode and asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Dunraven?”

  “Ah, right to the point, eh, lass?” He grinned, and I felt like a complete ass. Where were my manners?

  He licked his bottom lip as he considered me, and I fixated on his tongue. Insane. I had suddenly fallen into the land of the lost.

  He said, “I have a business proposition for ye, Miss Doogan. Could ye, do ye think, spare me a half hour?”

  A proposition? What was he saying? Business? What kind of business? I couldn’t understand what he could possibly want to propose to me. I must have had a question on my face, because he chuckled, and his twinkling green eyes drew a smile from me. Oh, I told myself immediately, he is dangerous. His charm was the kind that seeped in and took over when you weren’t ready and didn’t realize.

  Okay, brain, get it together, I told myself. He was a man, just a man.

  But, those nasty hormones of mine whispered, ah, but listen to his voice, that seductive Irish lilt, and his eyes, oh my gosh, his eyes!

  STOP.

  I really had to pull myself together.

  I looked at Betty, who is often much wiser than I about a variety of subjects. She has ten years on me, a husband, and a newborn. She is stable, and I have gotten into the habit of leaning on her when life gets too hard. Life gets hard unexpectedly and often more so since I lost Granny.

  Betty and I make a good team and have a thriving, growing business. So, of course, I looked at her for help, hoping she would get me out of this. I didn’t trust myself to go anywhere with this man.

  Help? HA! She wasn’t giving the kind I sought. Just the opposite. She said, “Go on, Riley—you need a cup of coffee, and it wouldn’t hurt you to eat something too. When was the last time you ate?” The mother in her always fussed over me.

  I grinned stupidly, and when I looked back up at Dunraven, I knew I was in trouble. I was so very dazzled by him. I brilliantly offered, “I … I … um.”

  He smirked. “An easy thing to decide, lass … and may I presume to say that yer grandmother told me she wanted you and I to meet. Now is a good time.”

  I was on an edge. I knew if I took one step, just one step, I would fall. I am a sure and steady person. I don’t walk near the edge.

  I decided this was definitely not a good time, and I would just tell him that.

  “Sure, but only for a short time … I have so much work to do today and don’t want to fall behind.” Obviously, the part of the brain controlling my mouth had other ideas.

  Betty grimaced at me, waved me off, and said even more forcefully this time, “Go…go on, you need a break, Riley. Take as long as you like. Mornings have been slow … now off with you.”

  Betty had tried everything she knew to get me to agree to take a vacation. She cajoled and begged and commanded and even did the ‘mother’ thing, but working was a balm for my troubles, and losing my grandmother was—still is—a really difficult thing.

  I didn’t want time to think about it, and work ate up my time. I knew she felt guilty because she took all of July off after the birth of her baby girl. I had promised her I would take August, and I’d even fooled myself for a while into thinking that I would, but … I didn’t. I should have. I needed to get up to Granny’s—now my—home and sort out the paperwork and everything. The thought of my grandmother no longer waiting there for me, though, still sends shooting pains through my heart.

  I’d lost her to a stroke when she was only seventy, a young seventy, and I’d thought she would live forever. She had been my all from the moment I lost both my parents in a car accident that left me alive. I was twelve at the time.

  Well, here it was, four days into August, super slow at work, and I was still in NYC, humming away my summer in denial.

  I couldn’t say no to Dunraven (I don’t imagine too many say no to a man like him), but I knew he was right, that my grandmother would want me to be polite and give him some attention. That was a biggy for me.

  He stood patiently while I worked things out in my head. Betty kept up a steady stream of conversation with him as I excused myself and hurried to the back to wash up and put a brush to my long hair. I stared into the mirror above the sink. Violet eyes stared back at me. True violet, like the flower.

  Right, okay, go on, I urged myself, but my feet seemed firmly planted on the bathroom floor. I finally sucked in a huge gulp of air, let it out, and made my way back to Betty and Dunraven.

  He held the door open for me, and as I stepped through he said on a low, very low note, “Ye smell of vanilla and heather.”

  I don’t wear perfume because it is true. My grandmother began remarking upon it when I turned eighteen. She said my natural scent was strong and exotic and I shouldn’t hide it with perfume.

  I changed the subject and asked, as I stepped out into the morning’s bright sun, “Well, now, what is the business you wish to speak to me about?”

  His voice was low and underlined with something that made me fidget inwardly. “Right then, lass, I see a nice coffee shop across the avenue. We’ll talk there, shall we?”

  My curiosity defeated but warning myself to treat him with extreme caution, I said as warily as I felt, “Sure.”

  As he led me outside and to the curbing, his strong hand touched my elbow and drove me wild. It was as though something massaged one end of my network of nerves, deep inside my body, and that caused the whole damn intricate system to light up. Alarms were going off. My nerve endings were all tingling with pleasure and anticipation. They wanted more. This was crazy.

  My first instinct was to do what I do so well. I am more than I seem to humans, more than I ever wanted to be, and as I said, I don’t play with magic unless it’s absolutely necessary. When it came to men, though, I tended to use my special skill. It was a handy tool, and if more women had it, sadly, they might not be with the man they chose.

  I could scan him. Should I scan him?

  Now and then when a guy comes at me with all he has, I do what I call a mental scan. Granny used to call it a reading. She always said my ability to ‘read’ people was stronger than any other witch she had ever known. Oh, yes, witch here, born and bred. At any rate, Granny used to say that my ability came from my father, but I always mentally questioned that because, as far back as I can remember, I never heard Dad mention anything about ‘reading’ people. I was twelve, as I said, when I lost my parents, so I just figured I was too young to really remember … or that I hadn’t paid attention because I’d never wanted to be a witch. All I’d ever wanted was to fit in at school with everyone else, and I worked real hard at it.

  At any rate, whether I wanted this skill or not, it had kept me safe over the years. Lonely, sexually inactive, but my heart was intact. Life with regards to men—nonexistent.

  However, I’d been beginning to think maybe that wasn’t a good thing. I’d come to believe that if we don’t take chances, we miss out on more than we should. Well, the question here was, should I scan him—read him? It wasn’t as though I would intrude into his mind. I can’t really do that per say, but I can get actual ‘intentions’ and a sense of who they are and what they want from me.

  Was it time to do a ‘reading’ see if Finn Dunraven was ‘friend or foe’? I thought so.

  I started with only a gentle probe, which meant I went in with a soft touch, like invisible fingers reaching, and feathered his mind with my touch.

  Immediately I was jolted back and slammed into a wall. Not physically, though that was what it felt like. My probe was sent packing.

  It was as though my entire body was hurtled out and backwards. I felt the rejection like a slap, and it was as though I were, like a boxer, down for the count. I felt almost winded by the contact and stumbled on my feet from the encounter.

 
He reached out and held me steady by my elbow, and I managed to give him an apologetic smile and hurriedly came up with a cover-up. “My ankle must have turned.”

  What was that in those dark green eyes of his? Amusement? It was as though he knew what I had just attempted. That wasn’t possible. A human would never have known.

  Just what was that look, then? Did he know? How could he know? I wasn’t getting a magic vibe off him. Was he magical? Was he a warlock? Noo … Granny would have said. She never told me he was a warlock, though I did remember her saying once that he was very unique. I wasn’t getting a sense of anything magical, and if he was, I would … at least, I thought I would. I was especially sensitive when meeting other witches. Why hadn’t I been able to read him? What had shut me out, wait, not only shut me out but shoved me off?

  Now, here was Finn Dunraven bringing her back to life, and the notion made me smile. I felt his scrutiny and told myself, Okay, just keep walking, kiddo.

  All I could do right then was get this over with. Just go in, I told myself, have your coffee, and listen to what he has to say. Try not to look into his eyes.

  At that precise moment, he actually took my hand and pulled me close as we reached the other side of the avenue and climbed up a high curb. Surprised by the hand clasping, I looked up, and bam, those bright green eyes twinkled right into mine.

  Softly and unexpectedly he said, as though we were the only two people standing on the sidewalk, as though busy shoppers weren’t trying to get by us, “I have never seen such eyes, lass. Violet, true violet like a splash of color on canvas, deep and rich. Ye could slay a man with just yer eyes alone, and I have no doubt ye have.”

  I laughed. What else could I do? What do you say to something like that? People have always remarked about the color of my eyes, so I am used to it. I said ruefully, “It is just a color. No one else in my family ever had violet eyes, so I don’t know where they came from, but still … just a color.”

  He frowned “I have seen such a color only once before.” A thoughtful expression passed over his handsome features, and then he stepped forward, my hand still in his.

  Not much I could say to that, so I just let it drop there and smiled. As I couldn’t pull my hand out of his without appearing rude, I allowed it to stay tucked into his. Admittedly, it felt great, my hand in his. I excused myself and thought, Sure, it feels great. His hold is warm and comforting, but I am not that woman. I don’t ordinarily allow a man—especially someone I just met—to hold my hand. I have lots of reasons I could list for resisting relationships, and hand-holding is to me a personal and intimate thing.

  What was worse for me at that moment, besides the fact that I allowed him to take my hand, allowed him to lead me along, was the question, the pulsating question of what the frigging heck was happening to me?

  Sensations shivered through his palm into mine and scooted through my entire body! I liked those sensations. My lashes fluttered as my breath hitched. What was he doing to me? This was crazy. Someone like him—well, he must have had models falling all over him.

  He gently led me to the front door of the café and managed to open the door wide without releasing my hand. Awareness scurried through me. I was all too aware of him, of his masculinity, of an undercurrent of sensual promise.

  From the moment I met Finn Dunraven, I had been stuck in a world where I’d been transformed into a foolish, mindless twit. Over and over again I told myself, Breathe, just breathe, because I was out of breath if for no other reason than I had forgotten how this necessary body function worked.

  I was stuck somewhere in my head looking for my grandmother’s advice. Everything felt off, but she was gone. I had so many regrets … so much left undone, unsaid.

  I had never allowed her to make me a part of her coven. I regret that now. It could have been something we would have shared and enjoyed together. I could have learned more about the ‘witching process’. I always thought I had time.

  I apparently wasn’t mature enough to accept what I was, what I could be. I have come to realize that you should embrace who you are, be who you are, and be the best at what you are. I wish I had told her that … but I hadn’t and will never be able to.

  I tried. When they’d called me to tell me she was in the hospital, I spent a fortune to charter a flight, and thank goodness I had arrived in time. We only had a few moments together, we only had a few words before I lost her, and she spent those last moments comforting me.

  She told me that the love we shared would always be with me and keep her close in my heart, but you know, when you lose someone you love, those are just words.

  Three months later, however, I’d found that, in a way, she was with me. It was something, but it wasn’t enough. Memories even now just aren’t enough.

  Finn had brought her back into my busy head. I could see her brightly laughing over some nonsense. She wasn’t quite with me, but she wasn’t totally absent either. Work had helped me resolve the issue.

  I put these thoughts aside because I had to concentrate as I walked, which seemed to be an art form I had failed to master as he led me up to the hostess merrily coming forward to greet us.

  She was bright and chipper and, I noted, out of breath herself as she stared, and I do mean stared, at Dunraven. I couldn’t blame her; he was something to look at.

  She directed us to a booth and said in a husky voice meant only for him, “Enjoy your breakfast, and if there is anything else I can do for you …” She allowed her words to trail off.

  Oh, puh-lease, I thought.

  As I scooted into the booth and he took his place opposite me, I found myself looking into those eyes of his. I was struck by something … something ‘old world’ in the recesses of his expression.

  Again, I wondered why I had not been able to scan him.

  I folded my hands into each other as I placed them on the table and purposely gave him a look I have perfected in the last four years. My cool, ‘I know what I am doing’ business look.

  I wanted him to know that was why I was having coffee with him. No other reason. The hand-holding was an anomaly. Before, however, I could follow through and articulate the questions in my head, for I had many and wanted to put at least one to him, he leaned away from me, sat straight up against the low-backed booth, and laughed. I was startled and waited.

  His voice was rich with amusement when he followed this up and said, “Ye look like ye are about to pray. Am I that frightening, lass?”

  That made me narrow my eyes as I regarded him, and I gave him a half smile. “Not frightened,” I answered, and I know he heard the snap in my voice. “Only praying you will tell me, quickly, what this is all about so I can get back to work.”

  “Is that all ye do, lass? Work?”

  “Pretty much.” That ‘scanning’ I relied on, well, to use an old cliché, turned out to be ‘a blessing and a curse’. It kept me from ever being able to give myself to anyone, because every single time I wanted to do just that, I found that he had ulterior motives, that he was a compulsive cheater, or something else that put me off him. Besides that, I am a witch. I believe in honesty in a relationship, so what was I supposed to do, say, ‘Hi, witch here’? That would take a whole lot of trust, and so far I hadn’t found a man I could trust with that—rather depressing, considering that it meant I’d reached the age of twenty-four and had never really had any relationships whatsoever. None—nada.

  I squared off, ignored my wayward thoughts, and said, “So tell me, what is it you need to discuss with me?”

  A waitress of uncertain years appeared, and he ordered two coffees. I was surprised he didn’t ask me if that was what I wanted. I did, but still. Then he turned to me and said, “I believe in breaking bread when I find someone I mean to have in m’life.” He grinned boyishly, “Besides that, I’m starving. How about some eggs, Miss Doogan?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, but go ahead. I’ll just have the coffee.”

  “Please, humor my whim, Miss Doogan.
Join me, do. I hate to eat alone, and it seems lately that is all I do.”

  I glanced at the elderly waitress, who was impatiently fiddling with her pen. I could see she wanted to get our order and move on. I hadn’t eaten a thing since yesterday afternoon, and in fact the aroma in the coffee shop of bacon and onions had me suddenly famished. I caved and said, as I gave him a warmer smile than I had meant to, “Okay, thanks yes, I’ll have scrambled eggs and one piece of whole-wheat toast.”

  He grinned and ordered the works for himself—bacon, eggs, and potatoes—and then turned back to regard me thoughtfully. His voice was soft when he said, “Ye know, lass, ye could do with a pound or two. I’m thinking ye were thin enough before ye lost yer grandmother and are way too thin now.”

  My eyes snapped open. “You must have looked pretty closely at my photos?”

  Was this stalking? Was he a stalker? Was this stalking going on?

  “Well, in truth, Maddy took every opportunity to show me yer latest pictures. She adored ye, but ye know that, don’t ye?”

  I sighed, and got wistful. “Yes, we were close.”

  “Aye, ye would send her pictures on yer computer, and she would print them up and frame ‘em.”

  I laughed. “She was so funny about the computer. Never wanted to learn, and then one day, there it was in her kitchen.” I shook my head over the memory and all the laughs I had enjoyed at poor Granny’s expense while she mastered the use of a mouse.

  “Did you know her well?” I asked, suddenly hungry to talk about her.

  “Aye, I came to know her very well,” he said gently. “Hers was a great loss to our community in Sutterville, but especially to me as I often found myself stopping by for a cup of tea and a bit of her wisdom.”

  “Yes, she mentioned you to me quite a bit.” I chewed my bottom lip and frowned. “I am afraid I didn’t pay much attention. I thought she was playing at match-making.” Oh no, did I just say that? Why did I say that?

  “And ye don’t wish to be matched with anyone?” he quizzed, his green eyes alive with twinkling gold lights.

  Wasn’t answering that. “Why did you come all this way, Mr. Dunraven?” I needed to get to the point and off this subject.