JAKrentz - Witchcraft (3 page)

"I doubt that. You may have some weird notions about the basic relationship between a man and a woman, but you're not silly. My family owes you more than it can ever repay, and I am more than willing to give you anything I can against that debt." Kimberly stirred uneasily again. "I wish you wouldn't talk about it in such terms. I only did what seemed logical in the circumstances."

"You saved my nephew's life. He sends his best, by the way. When I told Scott I was going over to the coast to see you he asked me to tell you he'd like to play the '' game again some dark night." Kimberly groaned and lifted her gaze heavenward in mocking supplication. "You can tell him he'll have to play it alone next time.

I was scared to death!" She remembered all too vividly that night two months ago when she had looked out her window and seen the lights in the normally closed cottage a few hundred yards from her own. The old, two-story house on the bluff above her cottage was used primarily as a summer rental so the fact that it was occupied in winter had mildly interested Kimberly. Other things had interested Kimberly about that house for three days preceding that fateful night. She had seen the car arrive with the woman and the small, dark-haired child. The little boy had been wearing a bright orange windbreaker. But after they had disappeared inside the old house they had not emerged again. It made no sense to come to the coast and stay locked inside a shack of a cottage for three solid days. People who came to this part of the country wanted to walk on the beach, hunt for shells and generally immerse themselves in the stark drama of winter on the coast. On the third day, Kimberly had decided to pay a visit to her neighbors. She had been rudely turned away at the door by a strikingly beautiful woman who had made it quite clear that the family did not want to be bothered. It was as she was walking back to her own cottage that Kimberly had happened to glance up at the second-story window and seen the face of the seven-year-old boy staring down at her. In that moment she realized she had never seen such an expression of emptiness on any human's face, young or old. It had stunned her. As she had stood there looking up at the boy he had abruptly been yanked away from the window, presumably by one of the adults inside the cottage. Instinctively alarmed but at a loss as to what might be happen
ing
, Kimberly had gone back to her own place and located the phone number of the real estate firm that handled rentals in the area. When she asked the agent if he had rented the house he told her that he hadn't. Kimberly had explained there was someone staying there and the agent had agreed to check with the owners to see if they had rented it out on their own. When the word came back that the owners were in Jamaica and couldn't be reached, the agent had said he'd drive by his client's property the following day when he got a chance and see what was happening. Possibly some freeloaders had broken in to use the facilities. That evening Kimberly had found herself watching the other cottage almost constantly. Something was wrong and she wasn't sure how to handle it. After all, she had no real evidence of any sort of criminal activity taking place. The only thing she had to go on at all was the strange look on the face of the child in the window and the fact that she was almost certain there should be no one staying in the cottage at this time of year. And then she had turned on the radio to catch the evening news and heard the bulletin about the kidnapping. It had taken place three days earlier but the family had tried to keep it quiet while they handled the situation. Someone had leaked the news to the press. As she listened to the description of the missing boy, Kimberly had gone very, very still. He had dark hair and he had last been seen wearing a bright orange windbreaker. BY the end of the news broadcast she knew that the child she'd seen in the upstairs window was little Scott Emery whose wealthy uncle, Darius
Cavenaugh
, had just received a ransom note. There had been a storm brewing that night, just as there was tonight, Kimberly recalled. When she'd tried to call the local law enforcement authorities she'd found her phone was out of order because of the high winds. Her next thought had been to take her car and drive into the nearest town, which was several miles away. She'd pulled on a waterproof jacket and a pair of boots and stepped outside, keys in her hand. Instinctively she'd glanced over at the other cottage and seen the lights in the upstairs window go out. Perhaps, she remembered thinking, the boy had just been put to bed for the night.

She decided to take the risk of climbing up onto the porch roof of the old cottage. It wasn't such an outrageous idea. After all, the storm would muffle any noise she might make as she approached the house under cover of darkness and climbed up on the shaky railing of the porch. It was easy enough to swing herself up onto the porch roof, and from there she made her way to the darkened window where she had last seen the child. Peering through the window she was able to make out the shape of a small boy lying quietly on the bed. He was alone in the room. He'd been startled by Kimberly's soft knock on the window but he didn't cry out. Instead he simply stared at what must have been only a dark, shadowed face. Gently Kimberly knocked again. With a bravery that exceeded his years, Scott Emery came slowly toward the window until he could see Kimberly smiling encouragingly at him. And then he recognized the lady he'd seen earlier that day. Once the recognition was established Kimberly had no trouble at all getting Scott to cooperate.

Together they raised the old window. The child's movements were slow and unusually awkward. It wasn't until the window had been forced open and Kimberly had gotten a whiff of the strange odor in the room that she realized he might be drugged. The penetrating fragrance of a burning herb
stang
her nostrils and she held her breath as she guided Scott out the window. He crawled out wearing a pair of cheap pajamas and nothing else. There wasn't time to search for the orange windbreaker. Following Kimberly's whispered instructions he kept very quiet as they made their way over the porch. Kimberly balanced precariously on the railing, lifting Scott down and then they ran through the storm toward her car.

For once the temperamental vehicle started relatively easily and Kimberly drove straight to the local authorities. During the drive Scott Emery told her how his kidnappers were really witches. One good thing about the drugging effects of the herbs, Kimberly had reflected privately, was that they seemed to have mitigated the emotional trauma most kidnap victims suffered. Scott didn't appear to realize just how much time had elapsed since he'd been taken. He simply looked forward to seeing his uncle. After that there was a time of confusion and chaos capped by the appearance of Darius
Cavenaugh
when he arrived to claim his nephew. Whatever drugging influence Scott had been under evaporated quickly in the fresh air. He began to perk up almost at once and started chattering quite cheerfully about the "witches" who had held him captive. His uncle listened intently. The authorities arrived at the cottage to find it abandoned with virtually no clues as to the identity of the kidnappers. Scott's tale of being held prisoner by witches had been dismissed as a child's fantasy, possibly induced by the drug. Only Darius
Cavenaugh
refused to dismiss Scott's story as an embroidery of the facts. He'd held his own counsel on the subject. Kimberly had spent several hours with
Cavenaugh
that night. The paperwork and the questions had gone on seemingly forever.
Cavenaugh
had handled it all with a cool, relentless patience and efficiency that said a great deal about him. During that time she had sensed the strength, the total reliability of the man. No wonder little Scott was convinced his uncle would ultimately take care of things.
Cavenaugh
was the kind of man who fulfilled his responsibilities, regardless of what it took to do so.

The kidnappers, as far as Kimberly knew, were still at large. "Why did you almost send for me today, Kim?"
Cavenaugh
asked again. She took a deep breath. "You won't believe this but I tried to call you because someone gave me a rose." He was silent for a moment. "A rose?" Without a word Kimberly got to her feet and went over to the windowsill.

Gingerly she picked up the wine bottle and brought the flower over to where
Cavenaugh
sat watching her. "Remember what Scott kept saying about being held captive by witches?" she whispered.
Cavenaugh
contemplated the needle in the rose. "I remember." Kimberly sat down again, her fingers lacing together tensely between her knees. "Do you think I'm letting my imagination run away with me?"
Cavenaugh
met her eyes across the short distance separating them. "No. I think this little gift could quite properly be interpreted as a threat." He considered the rose once more. "That's why you called me, wasn't it? Or rather why you considered calling me. You're scared."

"Yes." It was a relief to admit it aloud. Then something struck her about the way he had asked the question. She gave him an uncertain glance. "Why else would I have gotten in touch with you?" He smiled whimsically in the firelight. "It occurred to me that you might want to see me again for the same reason that I wanted to see you." Kimberly felt the electrical charge that seemed to be coiling around her. It was a culmination of the growing tension she had been experiencing all day. "Why did you want to see me again,
Cavenaugh
?"

"I've never been sure how much of Scott's story I should take at face value,"
Cavenaugh
said slowly. "But I do know one thing for certain. I did meet a real live witch that night I came to collect him from the local sheriff's office. I haven't been able to get her out of my head for nearly two months. But I told myself it would be wise to wait until she called in the debt owed her. I was just about to give up and come to see you, anyway, Kim. Our timing was just about perfect, wasn't it? Almost like telepathy."

CHAPTER TWO.

Cavenaugh
had anticipated a variety of circumstances under which Kimberly Sawyer might conceivably ask him for help. Most of the scenarios he had imagined involved money. He was used to people asking him for money. It wouldn't have mattered to him if she'd needed money.

After seeing the rather battered old Chevy in the drive and noting the general condition of the worn furniture, he would certainly have understood such a request. And since he had only been looking for an angle that would bring her to him, he'd decided that money was as good as any other reason. After all,
Cavenaugh
acknowledged, the main goal was to bring her back into his life long enough for him to explore the strange attraction he'd experienced the first time he'd met her. He was thirty-eight years old and he knew damn well the curious hunger to see her again should have faded rapidly after he'd returned to the Napa Valley. But it hadn't. Something in her called to him and he wasn't going to be able to get her completely out of his mind until he'd satisfied the need to see her again. It hadn't occurred to him that what Kim might ultimately ask for in repayment of the debt he owed her would be something as basic as protection. Now that she was tentatively raising the issue,
Cavenaugh
was startled at the rush of fiercely protective instincts he felt. By now he had freely admitted to himself that he wanted her. He just hadn't been expecting the force of that desire to spill over into other areas of his basic instincts. The sudden, compelling need to protect her put a new light on what should have been an essentially simple situation. After all,
Cavenaugh
reminded himself, he knew what it was to want a woman. He also knew how quickly superficial desire could burn itself out. Sexual attraction was a compelling, if frequently short-lived drive. That was something he could handle. But when the attraction became enmeshed with other emotions and instincts such as this strange
prot
ectiveness
, it threatened to metamorphose into something much stronger and infinitely more dangerous. Watching Kim now in the firelight,
Cavenaugh
admitted to himself that he wasn't quite certain why this particular woman held such fascination. He hadn't really been joking when he called her a witch.

Amber was the word that came into his head whenever he had conjured up her image in his mind. For example, there were the warm amber curls that she wore in a delightfully straggly knot at the back of her head.

It was understandable that several of the twisting tendrils had been loose the night he had met her. She had been through a hectic adventure in a storm. But tonight the suggestion of disarray was present again and he sensed the style was simply part of her personality. All
Cavenaugh
knew for certain was that he felt a strong urge to unpin the amber knot and watch her hair tumble around her shoulders. Amber described her eyes too. Golden brown and quick to reflect emotion.

More than once during the past two months
Cavenaugh
had wondered what that gaze would look like shadowed with passion. There was nothing extraordinary about the rest of her features. There was strength in her face, intelligence in her glance.
Cavenaugh
sensed the willpower beneath the surface as well as an innate wariness, and he wondered idly what had caused the latter. He guessed that she was in her late twenties, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Her body was pleasantly rounded and softly shaped with breasts that would perfectly fit the palm of his hand. He could see the outline of them beneath the butterscotch-and-black plaid sweater she wore. And that sweetly curved derriere so nicely revealed in the snug jeans made him want to reach out and squeeze. While everything went together in a reasonably attractive package it didn't explain the compulsion he had been experiencing to see Kimberly Sawyer again. Something else was at work. "Witchcraft," he murmured. "Ridiculous," Kimberly declared, assuring herself
Cavenaugh
was no longer alluding to the glimmering tension that had sprung up between them. "I overreacted to that damn rose. I'm sure it's someone's idea of a sick joke."