by Nora Roberts
“Along with the blood pressure of every male within range. How’s yours?”
He grinned. “Got any oxygen?”
“Sorry. Fresh out.” She gave his arm a friendly pat. “Why don’t you have a seat? I have a few more things to— Damn.”
“Excuse me?”
“Didn’t get the Closed sign up quick enough,” she muttered. Then she beamed a smile as the door opened. “Hello, Mrs. Littleton.”
“Morgana.” The word came out in a long, relieved sigh as a woman Nash judged to be somewhere between sixty and seventy streamed across the room.
The verb seemed apt, he thought. She was built like a cruise ship, sturdy of bow and stern, with colorful scarves wafting around her like flags. Her hair was a bright, improbable red that frizzed cheerfully around a moon-shaped face. Her eyes were heavily outlined in emerald, and her mouth was slicked with deep crimson. She threw out both hands—they were crowded with rings—and gripped Morgana’s.
“I simply couldn’t get here a moment sooner. As it was, I had to scold the young policeman who tried to give me a ticket. Imagine, a boy hardly old enough to shave, lecturing me on the law.” She let out a huff of breath that smelled of peppermint. “Now then, I hope you have a few minutes for me.”
“Of course.” There was no help for it, Morgana thought. She was simply too fond of the batty old woman to make excuses.
“You’re a dream. She’s a dream, isn’t she?” Mrs. Littleton demanded of Nash.
“You bet.”
Mrs. Littleton beamed, turning toward him with a musical symphony of jaggling chains and bracelets. “Sagittarius, right?”
“Ah . . .” Nash heedlessly amended his birthday to suit her. “Right. Amazing.”
She puffed out her ample bosom. “I do pride myself on being an excellent judge. I won’t keep you but a moment from your date, dear.”
“I don’t have a date,” Morgana told her. “What can I do for you?”
“Just the teensiest favor.” Mrs. Littleton’s eyes took on a gleam that had Morgana stifling a moan. “My grandniece. There’s the matter of the prom, and this sweet boy in her geometry class.”
This time she’d be firm, Morgana promised herself. Absolutely a rock. Taking Mrs. Littleton’s arm, she edged her away from Nash. “I’ve explained to you that I don’t work that way.”
Mrs. Littleton fluttered her false eyelashes. “I know you usually don’t. But this is such a worthy cause.”
“They all are.” Narrowing her eyes at Nash, who’d shifted closer, Morgana pulled Mrs. Littleton across the room. “I’m sure your niece is a wonderful girl, but arranging a prom date for her is frivolous—and such things have repercussions. No,” she said when Mrs. Littleton began to protest. “If I did arrange it—changing something that shouldn’t be changed—it could affect her life.”
“It’s only one night.”
“Altering fate one night potentially alters it for centuries.” Mrs. Littleton’s downcast look had Morgana feeling like a miser refusing a starving man a crust of bread. “I know you only want her to have a special night, but I just can’t play games with destiny.”
“She’s so shy, you see,” Mrs. Littleton said with a sigh. Her ears were sharp enough to have heard the faint weakening in Morgana’s resolve. “And she doesn’t think she’s the least bit pretty. But she is.” Before Morgana could protest, she whipped out a snapshot. “See?”
She didn’t want to see, Morgana thought. But she looked, and the pretty young teenager with the somber eyes did the rest. Morgana cursed inwardly. Dragon’s teeth and hellfire. She was as soppy as a wet valentine when it came to puppy love.
“I won’t guarantee—only suggest.”
“That will be wonderful.” Seizing the moment, Mrs. Littleton pulled out another picture, one she’d cut from the high school yearbook at the school library. “This is Matthew. A nice name, isn’t it? Matthew Brody, and Jessie Littleton. She was named for me. You will start soon, won’t you? The prom’s the first weekend in May.”
“If it’s meant, it’s meant,” Morgana said, slipping the photos into her pocket.
“Blessed be.” Beaming, Mrs. Littleton kissed Morgana’s cheek. “I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll be back Monday to shop.”
“Have a good weekend.” Annoyed with herself, Morgana watched Mrs. Littleton depart.
“Wasn’t she supposed to cross your palm with silver?” Nash asked.
Morgana tilted her head. The anger that had been directed solely at herself shot out of her eyes. “I don’t profit from power.”
He shrugged, then walked toward her. “I hate to point it out, but she twisted you around her finger.”
A faint flush crept into her cheeks. If there was anything she hated more than being weak, it was being weak in public. “I’m aware of that.”
Lifting a hand, he rubbed his thumb over her cheek to wipe away the faint smear of crimson Mrs. Littleton had left there. “I figured witches would be tough.”
“I have a weak spot for the eccentric and the good-hearted. And you’re not a Sagittarius.”
He was sorry he had to remove his thumb from her cheek. Her skin was as cool and smooth as milk. “No? What, then?”
“Gemini.”
His brow lifted, and he stuck his hand in his pocket. “Good guess.”
His discomfort made her feel a little better. “I rarely guess. Since you were nice enough not to hurt her feelings, I won’t take out my annoyance on you. Why don’t you come in the back? I’ll brew us some tea.” She laughed when she saw his expression. “All right. I’ll pour us some wine.”
“Better.”
He followed her through a door behind the counter into a room that served as storage, office, and kitchenette. Though it was a small area, it didn’t seem overly crowded. Shelves lined two walls and were stacked with boxes, uncrated stock, and books. A curvy cherry desk held a brass lamp shaped like a mermaid, an efficient-looking two-line phone, and a pile of paperwork held in place by a flat-bottomed glass that tossed out color and reflection.
Beyond that was a child-size refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and a drop-leaf table with two chairs. In the single window, pots of herbs were crowded and thriving. He could smell . . . he wasn’t sure what—sage, perhaps, and oregano, with a homey trace of lavender. Whatever it was, it was pleasant.
Morgana took two clear goblets from a shelf over the sink.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I can’t give you very much time, but you might as well be comfortable.” She took a long, slim-necked bottle out of the refrigerator and poured a pale golden liquid into the goblets.
“No label?”
“It’s my own recipe.” With a smile, she sipped first. “Don’t worry, there’s not a single eye of newt in it.”
He would have laughed, but the way she studied him over the rim of her glass was making him uneasy. Still, he hated to refuse a challenge. He took a sip. The wine was cool, faintly sweet, and smooth as silk. “Nice.”
“Thank you.” She took the chair beside him. “I haven’t decided whether I’m going to help you or not. But I’m interested in your craft, particularly if you’re going to incorporate mine into it.”
“You like the movies,” he said, figuring that gave him a head start. He hooked an arm around the back of the chair, scratching Luna absently with his foot as the cat wound around his legs.
“Among other things. I enjoy the variety of human imagination.”
“Okay—”
“But,” she went on, interrupting him, “I’m not sure I want my personal views going Hollywood.”
“We can talk.” He smiled again, and again she understood that he was a power to be reckoned with. As she considered that, Luna leapt onto the table. For the first time Nash noticed that the cat wore an etched round crystal around her neck. “Look, Morgana, I’m not trying to prove or disprove, I’m not trying to change the world. I just want to make a movie.”
“Why horror and the occult?”
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“Why?” He shrugged his shoulders. It always made him uncomfortable when people asked him to analyze. “I don’t know. Maybe because when people go into a scary movie, they stop thinking about the lousy day they had at the office after the opening scream.” His eyes lit with humor. “Or maybe because the first time I got past first base with a girl was when she wrapped herself all over me during a midnight showing of Carpenter’s Halloween.”
Morgana sipped and considered. Maybe, just maybe, there was a sensitive soul under that smug exterior. There certainly was talent, and there was undeniably charm. It bothered her that she felt . . . pushed somehow, pushed to agree.
Well, she’d damn well say no if she chose to, but she’d test the waters first.
“Why don’t you tell me about your story?”
Nash saw the opening and pounced. “I haven’t got one to speak of yet. That’s where you come in. I like to have plenty of background. I can get a lot of information out of books.” He spread his hands. “I already have some—my research tends to overlap and take me into all areas of the occult. What I want is the personal angle. You know, what made you get into witchcraft, do you attend ceremonies, what kind of trappings you prefer.”
Morgana ran a fingertip thoughtfully around the rim of the goblet. “I’m afraid you’re starting off with the wrong impression. You’re making it sound as though I joined some sort of club.”
“Coven, club. . . . A group with the same interests.”
“I don’t belong to a coven. I prefer working alone.”
Interested, he leaned forward. “Why?”
“There are groups who are quite sincere, and those who are not. Still others dabble in things best left locked.”
“Black magic.”
“Whatever name you give it.”
“And you’re a white witch.”
“You’re fond of labels.” With a restless move, she picked up her wine again. Unlike Nash, she didn’t mind discussing the essence of her Craft—but once she agreed to, she expected to have her thoughts received respectfully. “We’re all born with certain powers, Nash. Yours is to tell entertaining stories. And to attract women.” Her lips curved as she sipped. “I’m sure you respect, and employ, your powers. I do exactly the same.”
“What are yours?”
She took her time, setting her goblet down, lifting her eyes to his. The look she leveled at him made him feel like a fool for having asked. The power was there—the kind that could make a man crawl. His mouth went so dry that the wine he was drinking could have been sand.
“What would you like, a performance?” The faintest hint of impatience had seeped into her tone.
He managed to draw a breath and shake himself out of what he would almost have thought was a trance—if he believed in trances. “I’d love one.” Maybe it was twitching the devil’s tail, but he couldn’t resist. The color that temper brought to her cheeks made her skin glow like a freshly picked peach. “What did you have in mind?”
She felt the quick, unwelcome tug of desire. It was distinctly annoying. “Lightning bolts from the fingertips? Should I whistle up the wind or draw down the moon?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
The nerve of the man, she thought as she rose, the power humming hot in her blood. It would serve him right if she—
“Morgana.”
She whirled, anger sizzling. With an effort, she tossed her hair back and relaxed. “Ana.”
Nash couldn’t have said why he felt as though he’d just avoided a calamity of major proportions. But he knew that, for an instant, his whole being had been so wrapped up in Morgana that he wouldn’t have felt an earthquake. She’d pulled him right in, and now he was left, a little dazed, a little dull-witted, staring at the slim blond woman in the doorway.
She was lovely, and, though a head shorter than Morgana, she exuded an odd kind of soothing strength. Her eyes were a soft, calm gray, and they were focused on Morgana. In her arms she carried a box that was overflowing with flowering herbs.
“You didn’t have the sign up,” Anastasia said, “so I came in the front.”
“Let me take that.” Messages passed between the two women. Nash didn’t have to hear them to know it. “Ana, this is Nash Kirkland. Nash, my cousin, Anastasia.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Her voice, low and warm, was as soothing as her eyes.
“You’re not,” Morgana said as Nash got to his feet. “Nash and I were just finished.”
“Just beginning,” he told her. “But we can pick it up later. Nice to meet you,” he said to Anastasia. Then he smiled at Morgana and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Till next time.”
“Nash.” Morgana set the box down and took out a small pot of blooms. “A gift.” She offered it, and her sweetest smile. “Sweet peas,” she explained. “To symbolize departure.”
He couldn’t resist. Leaning over the box, he touched his lips to hers. “For the hell of it.” He sauntered out.
In spite of herself, Morgana chuckled.
Anastasia settled into a chair with a contented sigh. “Want to tell me about it?”
“Nothing to tell. He’s a charming annoyance. A writer with very typical views on witches.”
“Oh. That Nash Kirkland.” To please herself, Anastasia picked up Morgana’s half-full goblet and sipped. “The one who wrote that gory movie you and Sebastian dragged me to.”
“It was really quite intelligent and sly.”
“Hmm.” Anastasia drank again. “And gory. Then again, you’ve always enjoyed that kind of thing.”
“Watching evil is an entertaining way to reaffirm good.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, Nash Kirkland does very superior work.”
“That may be. I’d rather watch the Marx Brothers.” Automatically she walked over to check the herbs in Morgana’s window. “I couldn’t help but notice the tension. You looked as if you were about to turn him into a toad when I walked in.”
The thought gave Morgana a moment of sterling pleasure. “I was tempted. Something about that smugness set me off.”
“You’re too easily set off. You did say you were going to work on control, didn’t you, love?”
Scowling, Morgana snatched up Nash’s glass. “He walked out of here on two legs, didn’t he?” She sipped, and realized instantly it was a mistake. He’d left too much of himself in the wine.
A powerful man, she thought as she set the goblet down again. Despite the easy smile and the relaxed manner, a very powerful man.
She wished she’d thought to charm the flowers she’d given him, but she dismissed the idea immediately. Perhaps something was pushing them together, but she would deal with it. And she would deal with it, and with Nash Kirkland, without magic.
Chapter 2
Morgana enjoyed the peace of Sunday afternoons. It was her day to indulge herself—and from her first breath, Morgana had appreciated indulgences. Not that she avoided work. She had put a great deal of time and effort into seeing that her shop ran smoothly and turned a profit—without using her special skills to smooth her path. Still, she firmly believed that the proper reward for any effort was relaxation.
Unlike some business owners, Morgana didn’t agonize over books and inventory and overhead. She simply did what she felt needed to be done, making sure she did it well. Then when she walked away from it—if only for an hour at a time—she forgot business completely.
It amazed Morgana that there were people who would spend a beautiful day inside, biting their nails over ledgers. She hired an accountant to do that.
She hadn’t hired a housekeeper, but only because she didn’t care for the idea of someone poking through her personal things. She, and only she, was their caretaker. Though her gardens were extensive—and she’d long ago accepted that she would never have the way with growing things that her cousin Anastasia had—she tended the blooms herself. She found the cycle—planting, watering, weeding, harvesting—rewarding.
She knelt now, in a strong stream of sunl
ight, at the extensive rockery where her herbs and spring bulbs thrived. There was the scent of rosemary, of hyacinth, the delicacy of jasmine, the richness of anise. Music drifted through the windows, the penny whistles and flutes of a traditional Irish folk tune, clashing cheerfully with the surge and thrust of water spewing up from the rocks a few hundred yards behind her.
It was one of those precious and perfect days, with the sky spread overhead like clear blue glass and the wind, light and playful, carrying the scents of water and wildflowers. From beyond the low wall and sheltering trees at the front of her property, she could hear the occasional swish of a car as tourists or natives took in the scenery.
Luna was sprawled nearby in a patch of sunlight, her eyes slitted, nearly closed, her tail switching occasionally as she watched birds. If Morgana weren’t there, she might have tried for a snack—for all her bulk, she could move like lightning. But her mistress was very firm about such habits.
When the dog padded over to drop his head into Morgana’s lap, Luna gave a mutter of disgust and went to sleep. Dogs had no pride.
Content, Morgana sat back on her heels, ruffling the dog’s fur with one hand as she surveyed her rockery. Perhaps she would pluck a few sprigs—she was running low on angelica balm and hyssop powder. Tonight, she decided. If there was a moon. Such things were best done by moonlight.
For now, she would enjoy the sun, lifting her face to it, letting its warmth and life pour over her skin. She could never sit here without feeling the beauty of this spot, this place where she had been born. Though she had traveled to many other lands, seen many magic places, it was here she belonged.
For it was here, she had learned long ago, that she would find love, share love, and bear her children. With a sigh, Morgana closed her eyes. Those days could wait, she mused. She was content with her life precisely as it was. When the time came for it to change, she intended to remain fully in charge.
When the dog sprang to his feet, a warning growl humming in his throat, Morgana didn’t bother to look around. She’d known he’d come. She hadn’t needed the crystal or the black mirror to tell her. Nor could she claim it was clairvoyance—that was more her cousin Sebastian’s territory. She’d needed only to be a woman to know.
She sat, smiling, while the dog sent out a series of rapid, unfriendly barks. She would see just how Nash Kirkland handled the situation.
How was a man supposed to react when the woman he’d come to see was being guarded by a . . . he was sure it couldn’t really be a wolf, but it sure as hell looked like one. He was doubly sure that if she gave the word the sleek silver beast would take one long leap and go for his throat.
Nash cleared that throat, then jolted when something brushed his leg. Glancing down, he noted that Luna, at least, had decided to be friendly. “Nice dog you got there,” he said cautiously. “Nice, big dog.”
Morgana deigned to glance over her shoulder. “Out for a Sunday drive?”
“More or less.”
The dog had subsided into those low, dangerous growls again. Nash felt a bead of sweat slide down his back as the mass of muscle and teeth stalked toward him to sniff at his shoes. “I, ah . . .” Then the dog looked up, and Nash was struck by the gleam of deep blue eyes against that silver fur. “God, you’re a beauty, aren’t you?” He held out a hand, sincerely hoping the dog would let him keep it. It was sniffed thoroughly, then rewarded with a lick.
Lips pursed, Morgana studied them. Pan had never so much as nipped anyone’s ankle, but neither was he given to making friends so quickly. “You have a way with animals.”
Nash was already crouched down to give the dog a brisk scratching. All throughout his childhood he’d yearned for a dog. It surprised him to realize that his boyhood desire had never quite faded. “They know I’m just a kid at heart. What breed is he?”
“Pan?” Her smile was slow and secret. “We’ll just say he’s a Donovan. What can I do for you, Nash?”
He looked over. She was in the sunlight, her hair bundled under a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her jeans were too tight, and her T-shirt was too baggy. Because she hadn’t used gardening gloves, her hands were smeared with rich, dark earth. Her feet were bare. It hadn’t occurred to him that bare feet could be sexy. Until now.
“Besides that,” she said, with such an easy ripple of amusement in her voice that he had to grin.
“Sorry. My mind was wandering.”
It didn’t offend her to be found desirable. “Why don’t you start with telling me how you found me?”
“Come on, honey, you know you’ve got a reputation.” He rose to walk over and sit on the grass beside her. “I had dinner in the place beside your shop, struck up a conversation with my waitress.”
“I’ll bet you did.”