Captivated (11 page)

Her sexuality was a source of joy to her. And she was well aware that it equaled another kind of power. She would never abuse power. Her dealings with men, whether they led to friendship or to romance, had always been successful.

Until now. Until Nash.

When had she begun to slip? Morgana wondered as she wrapped and bagged a long, slim bottle of ginseng bath balm for a customer. When she’d followed that little tug on her sixth sense and crossed this very room to speak to him for the first time? When she’d bowed to that spark of curiosity and attraction and kissed him?

Perhaps she had made her first serious misstep only last night, by allowing herself to be led by pure emotion. Taking him into the grove, to that spot where the air hummed and the moon spilled.

She had taken no other man there before. She would take no other man there again.

At least, dreaming back, she could almost make herself believe it was the place and the night that had caused her to believe she had fallen in love.

She didn’t want to accept that such a thing could happen to her so quickly, or leave her such little choice.

So she would refuse to accept and put an end to it.

Morgana could almost hear the spirits laughing. Ignoring the sensation, she walked around the counter to help a customer.

Throughout the morning, business was slow but steady. Morgana wasn’t sure whether she preferred it when browsers drifted in or when she and Luna had the shop to themselves.

“I think I should blame you for the whole thing.” Morgana braced her elbows on the table and leaned down until she was eye-to-eye with the cat. “If you hadn’t been so friendly, I wouldn’t have assumed he was harmless.”

Luna merely switched her tail and looked wise.

“He’s not the least bit harmless,” Morgana continued. “Now it’s too late to back out. Oh, sure,” she said when Luna blinked, “I could tell him the deal’s off. I could make up excuses why I couldn’t meet with him
anymore. If I wanted to admit I was a coward.” She drew in a deep breath and rested her brow on the cat’s. “I am not a coward.” Luna gave Morgana’s cheek a playful pat. “Don’t try to make up. If this business gets any farther out of hand, it’s on your head.”

Morgana glanced up when the shop door opened. Her lips curved in relief when she spotted Mindy. “Hi. Is it two already?”

“Just about.” Mindy tucked her purse behind the counter, then gave Luna a quick scratch between the ears. “So how’s it going?”

“Well enough.”

“I see you sold the big rose quartz cluster.”

“About an hour ago. It’s going to a good home, a young couple from Boston. I’ve got it in the back ready to pack for shipping.”

“Want me to take care of it now?”

“No, actually, I could use a little break from retail. I’ll do it while you mind the shop.”

“Sure. You look a little down, Morgana.”

She arched a brow. “Do I?”

“Yep. Let Madame Mindy see.” Taking Morgana’s hand, she peered, steely eyed, at the palm. “Aha. No doubt about it. Man trouble.”

Despite the accuracy, the very annoying accuracy, of the statement, Morgana’s lips twitched. “I hate to doubt your expertise in palmistry, Madame Mindy, but you always say it’s man trouble.”

“I play the odds,” Mindy pointed out. “You’d be surprised how many people stick their hands in my face just because I work for a witch.”

Intrigued, Morgana tilted her head. “I suppose I would.”

“Well, lots of them are nervous about approaching you, and I’m safe. I guess they figure some of it might rub off, but not enough to worry about. Sort of like catching a touch of the flu or something, I guess.”

For the first time in hours, a laugh bubbled up in Morgana’s throat. “I see. I suppose it would disappoint
them to learn I don’t read palms.”

“They won’t hear it from me.” Mindy lifted a jade-and-silver hand mirror to check her face. “But I’ll tell you, honey, I don’t need to be a fortune-teller to see a tall blond man with great buns and eyes to die for.” She tugged a corkscrew curl toward the middle of her forehead before glancing at Morgana. “He giving you a rough time?”

“No. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“They’re easy to handle.” After setting the mirror aside, Mindy unwrapped a fresh stick of gum. “Until they matter.” Then she flashed Morgana a smile. “Just say the word and I’ll run interference for you.”

Amused, Morgana patted Mindy’s cheek. “Thanks, but I’ll make this play on my own.”

Her mood brighter, Morgana stepped into the back room. What was she worried about anyway? She
could
handle it. Would handle it. After all, she didn’t know Nash well enough for him to matter.

*  *  *

He had plenty to keep him busy, Nash told himself. Plenty. He was sprawled on the sofa—six feet of faded, sagging cushions he’d bought at a garage sale because it was so obviously fashioned for afternoon naps. Books were spread over his lap and jumbled on the floor. Across the room, the agonies and pathos of an afternoon soap flickered on the television screen. A soft-drink bottle stood on the cluttered coffee table, should he want to quench his thirst.

In the next room, his computer sat sulking at the lack of attention. Nash thought he could almost hear it whine.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t working. Idly Nash ripped off a sheet of notepaper and began folding it. He might have been lying on the sofa, he might have spent a great deal of his morning staring into space. But he was thinking. Maybe he’d hit a bit of a snag in the treatment, but it wasn’t like he was blocked or anything. He just needed to let it cook a while.

Giving the paper a last crease, he narrowed his eyes, then sent the miniature bomber soaring. To please himself, he added sound effects as the paper airplane glided off, crash-landing on the floor in a heap of other models.

“Sabotage,” he said grimly. “Must be a spy on the assembly line.” Shifting for comfort, he began to build another plane while his mind drifted.

Interior scene, day. The big, echoing hangar is deserted. Murky light spills through the front opening and slants over the silver hull of a fighter jet. Slow footsteps approach. As they near, there is something familiar about them, something feminine. Stiletto heels on concrete. She slips in the entrance, from light into shadow. The glare and the tipped-down brim of a slouchy hat obscure her face, but not the body poured into a short red leather dress. Long, shapely legs cross the hangar floor. In one delicate hand, she holds a black leather case.

After one slow glance around, she goes to the plane. Her skirt hikes high on smooth white thighs as she climbs into the cockpit. There is purpose, efficiency, in her movements. The way she slips into the pilot’s seat, spins the locks on the leather case.

Inside the case is a small, deadly bomb, which she secretes under the console. She laughs. The sound is sultry, seductive. The camera moves in on her face.

Morgana’s face.

Swearing, Nash tossed the plane in the air. It did an immediate nosedive. What was he doing? he asked himself. Making up stories about her. Indulging in bad symbolism. So, sure, she’d climbed into his cockpit and set off an explosion. That was no reason to daydream about her.

He had work to do, didn’t he?

Determined to do it, Nash shifted, sending books sliding to the floor. Using the remote, he switched off the television, then took up what was left of his notebook. He punched the play button on his recorder. It took less than five seconds for him to realize his mistake and turn it off again. He wasn’t in any frame of mind to listen to Morgana’s voice.

He rose, scattering books, then stepping over them. He was thinking, all right. He was thinking he had to
get the hell out of the house. And he knew exactly where he wanted to go.

It was his choice, he assured himself as he snagged his keys. He was making a conscious decision. When a man had an itch, he was a lot better off scratching it.

*  *  *

Her mood had improved enough that Morgana could hum along with the radio she’d turned on low. This was just what she’d needed, she thought. A cup of soothing chamomile, an hour of solitude, and some pleasant and constructive work. After packing up the crystal cluster and labeling it for shipping, she pulled out her inventory ledger. She could have spent a happy afternoon sipping the soothing tea, listening to music, and looking over her stock. Morgana was certain she would have done exactly that if she hadn’t been interrupted.

Perhaps if she’d been tuned in, she would have been prepared to see Nash stride through the door. But it really didn’t matter what she might have planned, as he stalked over to the desk, hauled her to her feet and planted a long, hard kiss on her surprised mouth.

“That,” he said when he took a moment to breathe, “was my idea.”

Nerve ends sizzling, Morgana managed a nod. “I see.”

He let his hands slide down to her hips to hold her still. “I liked it.”

“Good for you.” She glanced over her shoulder and noted that Mindy was standing in the open doorway, smirking. “I can handle this, Mindy.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can.” With a quick wink, she shut the door.

“Well, now.” Searching for composure, Morgana put her hands on his chest to ease him away. She preferred that he not detect the fact that her heart was pounding and her bones were doing a fast melt. That was no way to keep the upper hand. “Was there something else?”

“I think there’s a whole lot else.” His eyes on hers, he backed her up against the desk. “When do you want to get started?”

She had to smile. “I guess we could call this being direct and to the point.”

“We’ll call it whatever you like. I figure it this way.” Because she was wearing heels and they were eye-to-eye, Nash had only to ease forward to nibble on her full lower lip. “I want you, and I don’t see how I’m going to start thinking straight again until I spend a few nights making love with you. All kinds of love with you.”

The stirring started deep and spread. She had to curl her fingers over the edge of the desk to keep her balance. But when she spoke her voice was low and confident. “I could say that once we did make love you’d never think straight again.”

He cupped her face with one hand and brushed his lips over hers. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Maybe.” Her breath hitched twice before she controlled it. “I have to decide whether I want to take mine.”

His lips curved over hers. He’d felt her quick tremor of reaction. “Live dangerously.”

“I am.” She gave herself a moment to enjoy what he brought to her. “What would you say if I told you it wasn’t the right time yet? And that we’d both know when it was the right time.”

His hands slid up so that his thumbs teased the curves of her breasts. “I’d say you’re avoiding the issue.”

“You’d be wrong.” Enchanted—his touch was incredibly gentle—she pressed her cheek to his. “Believe me, you’d be wrong.”

“The hell with timing. Come home with me, Morgana.”

She gave a little sigh as she drew away. “I will.” She shook her head when his eyes darkened. “To help you, to work with you. Not to sleep with you. Not today.”

Grinning, he leaned closer to give her earlobe a playful nip. “That gives me plenty of room to change your
mind.”

Her eyes were very calm, almost sad, when she stepped back. “You may change yours before it’s done. Let me ask Mindy to take over for the rest of the day.”

She insisted on driving herself, following behind him with Luna curled in her passenger seat. She would give him two hours, she promised herself, and two hours only. Before she left him, she would do her best to clear his mind so that he could work.

She liked his house, the overgrown yard that shouted for a gardener, the sprawling stucco building with arching windows and red tile for the roof. It was closer to the sea than hers, so the music of the water was at full pitch. In the side yard were a pair of cypresses bent close together, like lovers reaching for one another.

It suited him, she thought as she stepped out of her car, off the drive, and into the grass that rose above her ankles. “How long have you lived here?” she asked Nash.

“Couple months.” He glanced around the yard. “I need to buy a lawn mower.”

He’d need a bush hog before much longer. “Yes, you do.”

“But I kind of like the natural look.”

“You’re lazy.” She felt some sympathy for the daffodils that were struggling to get their heads above the weeds. She walked to the front entrance with Luna streaming regally behind her.

“I have to get motivated,” he told her as he pushed open the front door. “I’ve mostly lived in apartments and condos. This is the first regular house I’ve had to myself.”

She looked around at the high, cool walls of the foyer, the rich, dark wood of the curving banister that trailed upstairs and along an open balcony. “At least you chose well. Where are you working?”

“Here and there.”

“Hmm.” She strolled down the hallway and peeked in the first archway. It was a large, jumbled living area with wide, uncurtained windows and a bare hardwood floor. Signs, Morgana thought, of a man who had yet to decide if he was going to settle in.

The furniture was mismatched and heaped with books, papers, clothes and dishes—possibly long forgotten.
More books were shoved helter-skelter into built-in cases along one wall. And toys, she noted. She often thought of her own clutter as toys. Little things that gave her pleasure, soothed her moods, passed the time.

She noted the gorgeous, grim-faced masks that hung on the wall, an exquisite print of nymphs by Maxfield Parrish, a movie prop—one of the wolves’ claws from
Shape Shifter
, she imagined. He was using it as a paperweight. A silver box in the shape of a coffin sat next to the Oscar he’d won. Both could have used a proper dusting. Lips pursed, she picked up the voodoo doll, the pin still sticking lethally out of its heart.

“Anyone I know?”

He grinned, pleased to have her there, and too used to his own disorder to be embarrassed by it. “Whatever works. Usually it’s a producer, sometimes a politician. Once it was this bean-counting IRS agent. I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he added as his gaze skimmed over her slim, short dress of purple silk, “you have great taste in clothes.”