Captivated

by Nora Roberts

  She laughed. “Nash, really.” With that, she strolled away. The cat jumped off the bed and followed.

  “Yeah,” Nash said to the now-snoozing Pan. “I guess she can take care of it.”

  Sitting back, he prepared to drink his coffee in solitary splendor. As he sipped, he studied the room. This was the first chance he’d taken to see what Morgana surrounded herself with in her most private place.

  There was drama, of course. She walked with drama wherever she went. Here it was typified in the bold jewel colors she’d chosen. Turquoise for the walls. Emerald for the spread they had kicked aside during the night. Bleeding hues of both were in the curtains that fluttered at the windows. A daybed upholstered in sapphire stretched under one window. It was plumped with fat pillows of garnet, amethyst, and amber. Arched over it was a slender brass lamp with a globe shaped like a lush purple morning glory. The bed itself was magnificent, a lake of tumbled sheets bordered by massive curved head and footboards.

  Intrigued, Nash started to get up. Pan was still pinning his legs, but after a couple of friendly nudges, he rolled aside obligingly to snore in the center of the bed. Naked, mug in one hand, Nash began to wander the room.

  A polished silver dragon stood on the nightstand, his head back, his tail flashing. The wick between his open jaws announced that he would breathe fire. She had one of those pretty mirrored vanities with a padded stool that Nash had always considered intensely feminine. He could imagine her sitting there, running the jewel-crusted, silver-backed brush through her hair, or anointing her skin with the creams or lotions from one of the colorful glass pots that stood on it, winking in the sunlight.

  Unable to resist, he picked one up, removing the long crystal top and sniffing. At that moment she was so much in the room with him, he could almost see her. That was the complexity and power of a woman’s magic.

  Reluctantly he recapped the bottle and set it aside. Damn it, he didn’t want to wait through the day for her. He didn’t want to wait an hour.

  Easy, Kirkland, he lectured himself. She’d only been gone five minutes. He was acting like a man besotted. Or bewitched. That thought set off a niggling little doubt that he frowned over for a moment, then shoved aside. He wasn’t under any kind of spell. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was in complete control of his actions. It was just that the room held so much of her, and being in it made him want.

  Frowning, he ran his fingers through a pile of smooth colored stones she kept in a bowl. If he was obsessing about her, that, too, could be explained. She wasn’t an ordinary woman. After what he’d seen, with what he knew, it was natural for him to think about her more often than he might about someone else. After all, the supernatural was his forte. Morgana was living proof that the extraordinary existed in an ordinary world.

  She was an incredible lover. Generous, free, outrageously responsive. She had humor and wit and brains, as well as an agile body. That combination alone could make a man sit up and beg. When you added the fairy dust, she became downright irresistible.

  Plus, she’d helped him with his story. The more Nash thought about it, the more he was certain the script was his best work to date.

  But what if she hated it? The idea jumped into his mind like a warty toad and had him staring into space. Just because they had shared a bed, and something else too intangible for him to name, didn’t mean she would understand or appreciate his work.

  What the hell had he been thinking of, giving it to her to read before he’d polished it?

  Terrific, he thought in disgust and bent to snatch up his jeans. Now he had that to worry about for the next several hours. As he strode off to shower, Nash wondered how he had gotten in so deep that a woman could drive him crazy in so many ways.

  Chapter 8

  It was more than four hours later before Morgana had a chance for a cup of tea and a moment alone. Customers, phone calls, arriving shipments, had kept her busy enough that she’d had time enough only to glance at the first page or two of Nash’s script.

  What she saw intrigued her enough to have her resenting each interruption. Now she heated water and nibbled on tart green grapes. Mindy was in the shop, waiting on two college students. Since both students were male, Morgana knew Mindy wouldn’t need any help.

  With a sigh, she brewed the tea, set it to steep, then settled down with Nash’s script.

  An hour later, she’d forgotten the tea that grew cold in the pot. Fascinated, she flipped back to page one and began all over again. It was brilliant, she thought, and felt a surge of pride that the man she loved could create something so rich, so clever, so absorbing.

  Talented, yes. She’d known he was talented. His movies had always entertained and impressed her. But she’d never read a screenplay before. Somehow she’d thought it would be no more than an outline, the bare bones that a director, actors, technicians, would flesh out for an audience. But this was so rich in texture, so full of life and spirit, that it didn’t seem like words on paper at all. She could already see, and hear, and feel.

  She imagined that, when those extra layers were added by the actors, the camera, the director, Nash might very well have the film of the decade on his hands.

  It stunned her that the man she thought of as charming, a bit cocky, and often full of himself had something like this inside him. Then again, it had rocked her the night before to discover that he had such deep wells of tenderness.

  Setting the script aside, she leaned back in her chair. And she had always considered herself so astute, she thought with a little smile. Just how many more surprises did Nash Kirkland have up his sleeve?

  * * *

  He was working on the next one as hard as he could. Inspiration had struck, and Nash had never been one to let a good idea slip away.

  He’d had a moment’s twinge at the notion of leaving Morgana’s back door unlocked. But he’d figured that with her reputation, and with the wolf-dog roaming the grounds, nobody would dare break in.

  For all he knew, she’d cast some sort of protective spell over the house in any case.

  It was going to be perfect, he told himself as he struggled to arrange an armload of flowers—purchased this time—in a vase. They seemed to take on a life of their own, stems jamming, heads drooping. After several tries, the arrangement still looked as though the flowers had been shoved into the container by a careless ten-year-old. By the time he’d finished, he’d filled three vases and was happy to admit he’d never be a set director.

  But they smelled good.

  A glance at his watch warned him that time was running short. Crouching in front of the hearth, he built a fire. It took him longer, and he imagined it took considerably more effort, than it would have taken Morgana, but at last the flames were licking cheerfully at the wood. A fire was hardly necessary, but he liked the effect.

  Satisfied, he rose to check the scene he’d so carefully set. The table for two was laid with a white cloth he’d found in the drawer of the sideboard in Morgana’s dining room. Though that room had had possibilities, with its soaring ceiling and its huge fireplace, he thought the drawing room more intimate.

  The china was hers, too, and looked old and lovely, with little rosebuds hugging the edges of gleaming white plates. He’d arranged the heavy silverware and the crystal champagne glasses. All hers, as well. And folded the deep rose damask napkins into neat triangles.

  Perfect, he decided. Then swore.

  Music. How could he have forgotten the music? And the candlelight. He made a dash to the stereo and fumbled through a wide selection of CDs. Chopin, he decided, though he was more in tune with the Rolling Stones than with classical music. He switched it on and slipped the disc in, then nodded his approval after the first few bars. Then he went on a treasure hunt for candles.

  Ten minutes later, he had over a dozen ranged throughout the room, glowing and wafting out the fragrances of vanilla, jasmine, sandalwood.

  He’d barely had time to pat himself on the back when he heard he
r car. He beat Pan to the door by inches.

  Outside, Morgana lifted a brow when she spotted Nash’s car. But the fact that he was nearly a half hour early didn’t annoy her. Not in the least. She was smiling as she crossed to the door, his script under one arm, a bottle of champagne in the other.

  He opened the door and scooped her up into a long, luxurious kiss. Wanting his own greeting, Pan did his best to crowbar between them.

  “Hi,” Nash said when he freed her mouth.

  “Hello.” She handed Nash both bottle and envelope so that she could ruffle Pan’s fur before closing the door. “You’re early.”

  “I know.” He glanced at the label on the bottle. “Well, well . . . Are we celebrating?”

  “I thought we should.” As she straightened, her braid slid over her shoulder. “Actually, it’s a little congratulatory gift for you. But I’d hoped you’d share.”

  “Be glad to. What am I being congratulated for?”

  She nodded toward the envelope in his hand. “For that. Your story.”

  He felt the little knot that had remained tight in his stomach all day loosen. “You liked it.”

  “No. I loved it. And once I sit down and take my shoes off I’ll tell you why.”

  “Let’s go in here.” After shifting the bottle and envelope to one arm, he tucked the other around her. “How was business?”

  “Oh, it’s ticking right along. In fact, I may see if Mindy can squeak out another hour or two a day for me. We’ve been . . .” Her words trailed off as she stepped into the drawing room.

  The candleglow was as mystic and romantic as moonbeams. It glinted on silver, tossed rainbows from crystal. Everywhere was the perfume of flowers and candle wax, and the haunting strains of violins. The fire smoldered gently.

  It wasn’t often she was thrown off balance so completely. Now she felt the sting of tears in the back of her throat, tears that sprang from an emotion so pure and bright she could hardly bear it.

  She looked at him, and the flickering light tossed dozens of stars into her eyes. “Did you do this for me?”

  A little off balance himself, he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek. “Must’ve been elves.”

  Her curving lips brushed his. “I’m very, very fond of elves.”

  He shifted until their bodies met. “How do you feel about screenwriters?”

  Her arms slid comfortably around his waist. “I’m learning to like them.”

  “Good.” As he settled into the kiss, Nash realized his arms were too encumbered to allow him to give it his best shot. “Why don’t I get rid of this stuff, open the champagne?”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea.” With a long, contented sigh, she slipped out of her shoes while he walked over to pluck out a bottle already nestled in the ice bucket. He turned both hers and his around to show the identical labels.

  “Telepathy?”

  Moving toward him, she smiled. “Anything’s possible.”

  He tossed the envelope aside, snuggled the second bottle in the ice, then opened the first with a cheerful pop and fizz. He poured, and then after handing her a glass, rang his against it. “To magic.”

  “Always,” she murmured, and sipped. Taking his hand, she led him to the couch, where she could curl up close and watch the fire. “So, what did you do today besides call up some elves?”

  “I wanted to show you my Gary Grant side.”

  With a chuckle, she brushed her lips over his cheek. “I like all of your sides.”

  Contented, he propped his feet on the coffee table. “Well, I spent a lot of time trying to get those flowers to look like they do in the movies.”

  She glanced over. “We’ll concede that your talents don’t run to floral arranging. I love them.”

  “I figured the effort was worth something.” He entertained himself by toying with her earring. “I did a little fine-tuning on the script. Thought about you a lot. Took a call from my very excited agent. Thought about you some more.”

  She chuckled and laid her head on his shoulder. Home. She was home. Completely. “Sounds like a very productive day. What was your agent excited about?”

  “Well, it seems he’d taken a call from a very interested producer.”

  Delight shimmered from her eyes as she sat up again. “Your screenplay.”

  “Right the first time.” It felt a little odd. . . . No, Nash thought, it felt wonderfully odd to have someone so obviously excited for him. “Actually, it’s the treatment, but since my luck’s been running pretty well we’ve got a deal in the works. I’m going to let the script cook a couple of days and take another look. Then I’ll ship it off to him.”

  “It’s not luck.” She tapped her glass to his again. “You’ve got magic. Up there.” She laid a finger on his temple. “And in here.” And on his heart. “Or wherever imagination comes from.”

  For the first time in his adult life, he thought he might blush. So he kissed her instead. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  With a light laugh, she settled back. “I’d hate to disagree with you. So I won’t.”

  He ran an idle hand down the braid on her shoulder. It felt tremendously good, he realized, just to sit here like this at the end of the day with someone who was important to him. “Why don’t you stroke my ego and tell me what you liked about it?”

  She held out her glass so that he could top off her champagne. “I doubt your ego needs stroking, but I’ll tell you anyway.”

  “Take your time. I wouldn’t want you to leave anything out.”

  “All of your movies have texture. Even when there’s blood splashing around or something awful scratching at the window, there’s a quality that goes beyond being spooked or shocked. In this—though you’re bound to set some hearts pumping with that graveyard scene, and that business in the attic—you go a step further.” She shifted to face him. “It’s not just a story of witchcraft and power or of conjuring forces, good and bad. It’s about people, their basic humanity. Of believing in wonderful things and trusting your heart. It’s a kind of funny celebration of being different, even when it’s difficult. In the end, even though there’s terror and pain and heartbreak, there is love. That’s what we all want.”

  “You didn’t mind that I had Cassandra casting spells with graveyard dirt or chanting over a cauldron?”

  “Artistic license,” Morgana said with a lifted brow. “I suppose I found it possible to overlook your creativity. Even when she was prepared to sell her soul to the devil to save Jonathan.”

  With a shrug, he drained his glass. “If Cassandra had the power of good, the story would hardly have enough punch if she didn’t have at least one match with the power of evil. You see, there are some basic commandments of horror. Even though that’s not exactly what this turned out to be, I think they still apply.”

  “Ultimate good against ultimate evil?” she suggested.

  “That’s one. The innocent must suffer,” he added. “Then there’s the rite of passage. That same innocent must spill blood.”

  “A manhood thing,” Morgana said dryly.

  “Or womanhood. I’m no sexist. And good must, through great sacrifice, triumph.”

  “Seems fair.”

  “There’s one more. My personal favorite.” He skimmed a fingertip up her neck. Chills chased it. “The audience should wonder, and keep wondering, if whatever evil that’s been vanquished slinked free again after the final fade-out.”

  She pursed her lips. “We all know evil’s always slinking free.”

  “Exactly.” He grinned. “The same way we all wonder, from time to time, if there really is something drooling in the closet at night. After the lights go out. And we’re alone.” He nipped at her earlobe. “Or what’s really rustling the bushes outside the cellar window or skulking in the shadows, ready, waiting, to ooze out and—”

  When the doorbell rang, she jolted. Nash laughed. Morgana swore.

  “Why don’t I get it?” he suggested.

 
She made a stab at dignity and smoothed down her skirt. “Why don’t you?”

  When he walked out, she let go with a quick shudder. He was good, she admitted. So damn good that she, who knew better, had been sucked right in. She was still deciding whether to forgive him or not when Nash came back with a tall, gangly man hefting a huge tray. The man wore a white tux and a red bow tie. Stitched over his chest pocket was Chez Maurice.

  “Set it right on the table, Maurice.”

  “It’s George, sir,” the man said in a sorrowful voice.

  “Right.” Nash winked at Morgana. “Just dish everything right on up.”

  “I’m afraid this will take me a moment or two.”

  “We’ve got time.”

  “The mocha mousse should remain chilled, sir,” George pointed out. Nash realized that the poor man had a permanent apology stuck in his throat.

  “I’ll take it into the kitchen.” Morgana rose to take the container. As she left them, she heard George murmuring sadly that the radicchio had been off today and they’d had to make do with endive.

  “He lives for food,” Nash explained when Morgana returned a few moments later. “It makes him weep to think how careless some of the new delivery boys are with the stuffed mushrooms. Bruising them heedlessly.”

  “Heathens.”

  “Exactly what I said. It seemed to put George in a better frame of mind. Or maybe it was the tip.”

  “So what has George brought us?” She wandered over to the table. “Endive salad.”

  “The radicchio—”

  “Was off. I heard. Mmm. Lobster tails.”

  “À la Maurice.”

  “Naturally.” She smiled over her shoulder as Nash pulled out her chair. “Is there a Maurice?”

  “George was sorry to report that he’s been dead for three years. But his spirit lives on.”

  She laughed and began to enjoy her food. “This is very inventive takeout.”

  “I’d considered a bucket of chicken, but I thought this would impress you more.”

  “It does.” She dipped a bite of lobster in melted butter, watching him as she slipped it between her lips. “You set a very attractive stage.” Her hand brushed lightly over his. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” The fact was, he was hoping there’d be dozens of other times, dozens of other stages. With the two of them, just the two of them, as the only players.

  He caught himself, annoyed that he was thinking such serious thoughts. Such permanent thoughts. To lighten the mood, he poured more champagne.

  “Morgana?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.” He brought her hand to his lips, finding her skin much more alluring than the food. “Is Mrs. Littleton’s niece going to the prom?”

  She blinked first, then threw her head back with a rich laugh. “My God, Nash, you’re a romantic.”

  “Just curious.” Because he couldn’t resist the way her eyes danced, he grinned. “Okay, okay. I like happily-ever-after as well as the next guy. Did she get her man?”

  Morgana sampled another bite. “It seems Jessie worked up the courage to ask Matthew if he’d like to go to the prom with her.”

  “Good for her. And?”

  “Well, I have this all secondhand from Mrs. Littleton, so it may not be precisely accurate.”

  Nash leaned forward to flick a finger down her nose. “Listen, babe, I’m the writer. You don’t have to pause for dramatic effect. Spill it.”

  “My information is that he blushed, stuttered a bit, pushed up these cute horn-rim glasses he wears, and said he guessed so.”

  Solemnly Nash raised his glass. “To Jessie and Matthew.”

  Morgana lifted her own. “To first love. It’s the sweetest.”

  He wasn’t sure about that, since he’d been so successful in avoiding the experience. “What happened to your high school sweetheart?”

  “What makes you think I had one?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Morgana acknowledged that with a faint cock of her brow. “Actually, there was one boy. His name was Joe, and he played on the basketball team.”

  “A jock.”

  “I’m afraid Joe was second-string. But he was tall. Height was important to