By Magic Alone (26 page)

Pleasure soaked me. “So you no longer think—” The plane shook and vibrated, and I gasped. “Aren’t we there yet? Talk to me, Scot. Please.”

“Sure,” he said easily, but his gaze remained watchful. “Any particular topic?”

“Your family’s ghost.” Oops. I hadn’t exactly meant to say that. But now that it was out . . . why not? “Tell me about the ghost.”

He schooled his features into a mask of nonexpression. “What ghost, Julia?” he asked lightly. “I think the altitude might be getting to you. How about if
you
talk for a while? Tell me why you decided to open a dating service.”

If I hadn’t sat and listened to Scot’s cadence for the past thirty minutes, I might have missed the nuance in his voice. But I
had, and I didn’t, and his raised pitch was more than simple shock at being asked such an out-there question. He knew what I was referring to. And I was fairly sure that his surprise wasn’t at the question itself, but that I knew enough to ask.

“Your family’s ghost,” I repeated. “You know, Scot. The one who smells like roses. I’d like to hear more about her. Well, I think she’s a she, because I don’t know any guys who smell like roses. Unless that’s an afterlife thing? Do all ghosts smell like roses?”

He blinked and shifted in his seat. He even dropped my hand to flex his fingers. Though perhaps that was simply because of that death-grip thing. For half a second I doubted my sanity, because Scot kept staring at me in the oddest way. You know, as if I had the word
crazy
stamped on my forehead in flashing neon lights.

Then he let out a noisy sigh. “Did my grandmother tell you about Miranda?”

Miranda.
A whole bunch of stuff slid into place: Verda’s “message from Miranda” when I was stuck at Magical Matchups, not to mention everything that happened while I was there. The way she’d laughed when I asked her if I could call Miranda. The fact that Isobel “should believe” in Verda’s mystical mumbo jumbo because she’d “seen Miranda.” And yes, even the name that Ethan and Alice had given their daughter—Rose.

Huh. A family ghost. And magic. Soul mates?

“No. I’ve sensed her. Smelled her. So tell me, Scot . . . Who is Miranda?”

“This is a conversation you—no,
we
—should have with my grandmother and sisters. They know a lot more about Miranda than I do.” His eyes and his voice held all the right notes. He was being 100 percent honest.

Still, he had to know something. Excitement that some of
my questions might be answered buzzed away a large chunk of my remaining fear. “Just share what you know.”

Scot’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a heavy swallow. “She was—is, I guess—my great-great-great-grandmother. I’ve never seen her, but others in my family have. Well, the women. I don’t think Joe or Dad have.”

“Do you know why she’s hanging around? I mean, I never believed in ghosts before, but assuming all of this is true, there has to be a reason she’s here, right?”

“I don’t know if any of us know her reason,” he said carefully. “But if I were to guess, based on certain recent events, I’d have to say . . .” He snapped his jaw shut, and his face paled a full shade. “When you say you’ve sensed Miranda, what do you mean?”

His sudden intensity combined with my nerves weighted the air between us. My mouth went dry. “The roses. I mentioned that I can smell the roses. That made your grandmother very happy, by the way. But there have been other things, too.”

“Such as?”

“Breezes when there shouldn’t be. That . . . um . . . feeling you get when someone else is with you. You know, like when you’re out somewhere, and you’re sure someone is staring at you, so you turn around to see—and there usually is. An old friend or a cousin, or even a stranger, but in these cases, I was completely alone, Scot. There wasn’t anyone else with me. So . . . I’m assuming I sensed Miranda.” I shivered. “Who is, apparently, an actual ghost. At least I know I’m not losing my mind!”

I tried to sound relieved, but in reality, I was reeling. It’s one thing to decide that a ghost might be haunting you. It’s another to discover that a ghost truly
is
haunting you.

Scot’s shoulders and jaw hardened. A shield dropped over his eyes, effectively hiding his emotions. “Miranda is real. But anything else I might say is only conjecture.”

He didn’t appear angry, but tension reminiscent of the night he’d barged into my place thickened his voice and tightened his mouth. Huh. I wanted answers. I wanted to know what he was thinking. But I wanted the other Scot back, the one who held my hand and calmed my fears. The one who’d talked to me in that intimate, seductive voice. So it wasn’t that hard to fake a smile and say, “It’s good enough to know that I wasn’t imagining things. You asked about my family. Guess what I just found out? My parents are going to sell their house and travel the country in an RV.”

The severe edge of his shoulders softened. Slowly, his mouth stretched into a grin. “Is that so?”

I nodded. Now it was my turn to talk and watch. So I did.

By the time we landed at McCarran, the shroud of stress surrounding Scot seemed to be gone. His color was back to normal, too. Both good things. But I had the feeling he was pretending, and that if I brought the Miranda topic up again, our weekend would end before it started. So, fine. I’d hold my tongue and wait for our return to Chicago. But if I had to corner all of the women in Scot’s family to get my answers, then I would. Because yeah, it was obvious that someone outside of Scot’s family sensing Miranda was not the normal state of affairs.

No way was I going to hazard a guess as to what that might mean.

Scot and I caught a cab outside of the airport, neither of us much in the mood for further conversation. I stifled a yawn. Air travel always tires me out. Add in the two-hour time difference between Chicago and Las Vegas, and my body was in rapid wind-down. Luckily, the evening’s agenda was up to me and Scot.

My parents were doing their own thing tonight, but had
suggested—via a voice mail from my mother in response to the message I’d left saying we’d come—getting together for breakfast in the morning. I had a sneaking suspicion that my mother assumed the friend I’d brought with me was either Kara or Leslie, because she specifically said, “We’d love to have breakfast with you girls.” This probably should have worried me. I mean, my parents generally don’t handle surprises well. But I found my curiosity outweighed my worry. After all, there was no guessing how the relaxed version of my parents would react.

The cab stopped and Scot paid the driver. I’d reserved our rooms at the Luxor casino and hotel because my parents were staying at Mandalay Bay. Separate hotels had seemed smarter. This way, Scot and I would have a little distance from them, they from us, and the indoor walkway made it easy to go back and forth. Besides, I’d always wanted to stay at the pyramid.

I’d visited Vegas once before, but the volume of the casino still shocked me when we entered. The jangle of the slot machines, piped-in music, and the grumbling roar of voices from a whole bunch of people created a cacophony of noise that was at once exhilarating and too much to take in.

And just like that, excitement replaced fatigue. I said as much to Scot after we checked in and were headed toward the wall of elevators—or as the check-in agent called them, inclinators—that would take us to our floor.

Scot shot me one of his sexy grins and my knees did their wiggle-jiggle thing. My God, would that ever stop? “Not tired at all, eh? Maybe we should get some dinner and hit the casino for a few games?”

We stepped into the elevator, and Scot pressed the button for the twenty-second floor. “Sure,” I said, fighting disappointment. We were in Las Vegas. Of course he’d want to do something more than stay in and get room service. But that’s what I
wanted. A quiet, calm night alone with Scot. “But give me an hour or so. I’m feeling a little dirty.”

Oh. Wow. That hadn’t come out quite right, had it?

His grin widened, but he didn’t use the opening to tease me. Which was also disappointing. The Scot from the other night would’ve in a heartbeat. Instead, he said, “A shower sounds good.”

“Yeah. That’s what I meant,” I mumbled.

Silence descended and neither of us broke it until we stopped outside of my room. His was a couple of doors down, so at least we were close to each other. He leaned against the wall and watched as I used my card key.

“I’ll be back,” he said in a very good Arnold imitation. “In an hour.”

“Yep!” I gave a little wave and almost fell into my room. As soon as the door closed behind me, I crumpled to my knees. Tonight was going to be a disaster. I knew it, but couldn’t put my finger on why.

Well, it had something to do with Miranda. Everything had been fine between us until I’d brought her up. So he either disliked that I knew about her, or he disliked why I knew about her. Or, I supposed, both. Ugh. Why had I even mentioned the ghost? I should’ve waited until after I’d spoken with Verda. Now, I’d likely ruined the entire damn weekend. A weekend that was going to be my one chance to spend time with Scot without Leslie lurking across the hall, or me thinking about Jameson, or worrying about Introductions or soul mates or anything else. Yes, I was here for my parents, but I was also here, by no design of my own, to enjoy myself with Scot.

I shoved my limp body off the floor, unpacked, and then took a quick shower. Thirty minutes later, I gave myself a narrow-eyed once-over in the mirror. My hair was loose and long, because Scot liked it that way, and I wanted to please
him. For clothes, I stuck with the simple: loose black cotton slacks and a gauzy blue blouse that matched my eye color. A thin silver necklace, slender hoop earrings, sensible black flats, and a watch completed my ensemble.

I looked, at best, okay. In the humdrum, nothing-special sense. But it wasn’t as if I had a wardrobe of sexy, slinky outfits to slip into. Everything about me screamed basic, including the clothes I wore. Which was my own fault. Even with my mother’s influence—or maybe,
because
of her influence—I’d never cared all that much about fashion.

“Well, it will have to be good enough, won’t it?” I said. But it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

I mentally ran through what I’d packed, and scowled. I had what I wore, an outfit that was almost an exact replica, except in different colors, a few pairs of jeans, a few tops, and a dress meant for my parents’ ceremony. Why couldn’t I be more like Leslie? She was always beautiful. Always sexy. She could walk into a bar wearing anything and have half the men there begging to buy her drinks. One flippy, flirty toss of her hair and a smile would draw the attention of every male in the room. It was easy for Leslie. She channeled sexy. I, on the other hand, channeled schoolmarm.

Maybe it was a mental thing. I dug deep, in search of my inner vixen. Mimicking Leslie, I batted my eyelashes at my reflection, smiled, and gave it a go with her flippy hair toss. My hair slapped against my right cheek, several strands twisted in my earring, my still-damp-from-mascara lashes left a sticky blob of black beneath my eyes, and my front teeth were now smeared with raspberry-blush lip gloss. Lovely. Rather than bringing my inner vixen to the surface, I’d summoned a seizure victim.

I repaired the damage, all the while doing everything I could to ignore the insane desire to be someone else. I’d always
liked who I was. But now, practical and rational didn’t seem so hot. It felt boring and nondescript. Flat and unappealing. The compulsion grew as I stared at my reflection, as my self-confidence plummeted. Damn it! Why couldn’t I be someone else? You know, just for the weekend.

Two distinct voices sounded off in my head. Sort of like the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil voice insisted I
could
be someone else, that all I had to do was use the power of the journal. The angel’s voice was softer but no less insistent. It stated loud and clear that magically altering anything with Scot would only result in unhappiness. That at the end of everything, nothing that might happen, nothing he said or did, would be real. And yeah, the angel—damn her—was right.

Strangely, I found I didn’t care. I was in Las Vegas with a beautiful man. A man who melted every bone in my body with the barest of touches, the smallest of glances. Hell, even when he was angry, my attraction for him sizzled. The simple scent of his damn jacket had almost put me over the edge, so yeah, regardless of what might happen after this weekend, I wanted—no, I needed—to be more than myself, to experience more than I ever had. Every woman deserves one magical weekend in her life, right? One weekend of craziness. So what if mine took some real magic to accomplish that?

I glanced at my watch, saw I only had a few minutes before my hour was up, and raced to the journal so fast I nearly tripped. I grabbed one of the pens the hotel supplied, whipped open the journal, and wrote instinctively, tossing every iota of rationality to the wind.

Three firm raps sounded, waking me from my haze. I started and my pen skidded along the page. Crap! Scot was here. But I hadn’t finished. I
needed
to finish.

“Just a second!” I called out.

My skin tingled as if I stood at the edge of the ocean and the spray of waves was misting over me. Energy rippled from my fingertips, heating my skin and the air. I tasted the sharp tang of magic on my tongue, felt the power with every breath I took. My hand trembled, my fingers tightened around the pen. I tried to focus, tried to remember the enchantment I was going to cast.

But couldn’t. “Everything about this weekend will be . . .,” I whispered. Wonderful? Amazing? Well, yeah, but those words weren’t enough. They were too vague. I needed to be specific. Otherwise, I could have an amazing weekend with a friend.

“You okay in there?” Scot called from the other side of the door. I recognized his anxiety, but didn’t understand why. It had only been a minute. Two at most.