Captivated (3 page)

Luna merely shifted her not-inconsiderable weight and began to wash herself.

*  *  *

Morgana didn’t have much time to think about Nash. Because she was a woman who was always at war with her impulsive nature, she would have preferred a quiet hour to mull over how best to deal with him. With her hands and mind busy with a flood of customers, Morgana reminded herself that she would have no trouble handling a cocksure storyteller with puppy-dog eyes.

“Wow.” Mindy, the lavishly built blonde Nash had admired, plopped down on a stool behind the counter. “We haven’t seen a crowd like that since before Christmas.”

“I think we’re going to have full Saturdays throughout the month.”

Grinning, Mindy pulled a stick of gum out of the hip pocket of her snug jumpsuit. “Did you cast a money spell?”

Morgana arranged a glass castle to her liking before responding. “The stars are in an excellent position for business.” She smiled. “Plus the fact that our new window display is fabulous. You can go on home, Mindy. I’ll total out and lock up.”

“I’ll take you up on it.” She slid sinuously off the stool to stretch, then lifted both darkened brows. “My, oh, my . . . look at this. Tall, tanned, and tasty.”

Morgana glanced over and spotted Nash through the front window. He’d had more luck with parking this time, and was unfolding himself from the front seat of his convertible.

“Down, girl.” Chuckling, Morgana shook her head. “Men like that break hearts without spilling a drop of blood.”

“That’s okay. I haven’t had my heart broken in days. Let’s see . . .” She took a swift and deadly accurate
survey. “Six foot, a hundred and sixty gorgeous pounds. The casual type—maybe just a tad intellectual. Likes the outdoors, but doesn’t overdo it. Just a few scattered sun streaks through the hair, and a reasonable tan. Good facial bones—he’ll hold up with age. Then there’s that yummy mouth.”

“Fortunately I know you, and understand you actually do think more of men than you do puppies in a pet-store window.”

With a chuckle, Mindy fluffed her hair. “Oh, I think more of them, all right. A whole lot more.” As the door opened, Mindy shifted position so that her body seemed about to burst out of the jumpsuit. “Hello, handsome. Want to buy a little magic?”

Always ready to accommodate a willing woman, Nash flashed her a grin. “What do you recommend?”

“Well . . .” The word came out in a long purr to rival one of Luna’s.

“Mindy, Mr. Kirkland isn’t a customer.” Morgana’s voice was mild and amused. There were few things more entertaining than Mindy’s showmanship with an attractive man. “We have a meeting.”

“Maybe next time,” Nash told her.

“Maybe anytime.” Mindy slithered around the counter, shot Nash one last devastating look, then wiggled out the door.

“I bet she boosts your sales,” Nash commented.

“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?”

“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.