Sympathetic Magic (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 4) (6 page)

His eyebrow lifted. “You must really have a bad opinion of us Wilcoxes if you think I’m just going to let you walk down there alone in the dark.”

Oh, of all the — “That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Obviously, she was not going to win this argument. “Fine. If you think I’m really in that much danger, here in Sedona, of all places, then by all means, come along.”

She pulled her shawl more closely around herself and began walking. Lucas let out something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but tagged along dutifully a pace behind her. Really, it was very well-lit here, what with the illumination from the shopping center and the lights in the parking lot of the hotel across the way from the spot where she’d left her car. All this fuss for nothing.

As she walked, she scrabbled in her purse for her keys. That way, she could have them in hand and be ready to flee at once, rather than stand there with Lucas watching as she tried to locate them amongst the wallet and the cosmetics bag and the packet of tissues and all the other items she had crowding her purse.

With her keys safely clutched in her fingers, she stopped a foot or so away from the rear of her Subaru and said, “I had a very nice time, Lucas. Thank you for dinner.”

Even in the chancy lighting from the street lamps in the parking lot a hundred feet away, his dark eyes twinkled. “Nice?”

“Well — ” she flailed. What else was she supposed to say? “Dinner was wonderful.”

“‘Wonderful’ is better,” he said. “And so is this.”

Before she could do anything, could attempt to move away, he bent down and pressed his mouth against hers. Shocked, she could only stand there, her brain seemingly incapable of registering what was going on, that Lucas Wilcox was
kissing
her.

And what was she doing? Kissing him
back
.

His arms were around her, pulling her close. Dimly, she heard her keys drop with a
clink
to the asphalt, followed by the softer
thud
of her purse. And she was breathing him in, tasting the rich, sweet dregs of the wine and the flourless chocolate cake they’d ordered to finish off their meal. The air was cold against her skin, but she was warm, so warm, her entire body seeming on fire as she pressed against him, felt again the solid, imposing strength of his body.

No. This was insane. What the
hell
was she thinking?

Somehow she found the strength of will to put her hands up against his chest, push herself away, stumble backward until she bumped into the rear of her car. “No,” she gasped. “I can’t — I
won’t
— do this.”

His breathing sounded hoarse, uneven, and he stared down at her in consternation. “Margot — ”

“No,” she said again. “I can’t. I’m — thank you again for dinner, Lucas.”

And she bent and grabbed her purse, then her keys, and scuttled away from him, keeping the reassuring bulk of her Forester at her back, as if by doing so she could prevent Lucas from attempting to pull her into his arms again.

He didn’t, though. He only stood there, watching her with sad eyes as she got into the car and gunned the engine, then drove off.

She didn’t dare look back.

A
ll right
, maybe he shouldn’t have pushed it quite that hard. But he’d looked down into her face, seen the way she gazed at him, her lips slightly parted. In every other woman he’d ever been with, that sort of expression was a clear invitation to intimacy.

The problem was, Margot wasn’t like any other woman he’d been with.

He drove home, going too fast, knowing that if he were anyone else, going fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit at nine o’clock at night on twisty 89A as it wove through Oak Creek Canyon would be an open invitation for a speeding ticket. Especially in a bright red Porsche.

But he’d never gotten a speeding ticket in his life. Or a parking ticket. Never been audited by the IRS, never broken a bone or chipped a tooth or even gotten a bad meal. Of course not. Those things happened to other people, not “lucky” Lucas Wilcox.

He hadn’t been so lucky tonight, though, had he?

Even though it was probably in the forties outside, he pushed the button to pop the top, hoping the cold air rushing through his hair and over his face might help to clear his head. Instead, the contrast only seemed to intensify the memory of how warm Margot’s lips had been against his, how soft and eager.

Well, eager for a few seconds, until she realized what she was doing and who she was doing it with.

“Shit,” he said aloud. He’d really blown this one.

Okay, acknowledging that…how did he fix it?

Good question. It was as if she were fighting with herself, some part of her attracted to him, but the other part — the responsible part — telling her all the reasons why this whole thing could never, ever work.

And that mystified him. Okay, the McAllister/Wilcox truce was still a little new and fragile, but it was getting less new with every day that passed, and clearly there were some, like Adam and Mason, who were just fine with that. But Margot was not fine with that at all.

Somehow he’d have to figure out a way to get her to change her mind. If it were simply that she wasn’t attracted to him, he’d let the whole thing go. That wasn’t it, though. He’d felt the heat between them, felt the way she pressed herself against him, opened her mouth to his. She’d wanted it…until she didn’t. Why?

He didn’t have the answer to that, but the next day he was going to talk to someone who might.

N
ormally
, he would call before dropping by Connor’s and Angela’s house. Today, though, he hadn’t wanted to get into any of this on the phone. If they were out, well, he’d try again later. It did sound as if Angela wasn’t getting out much these days, except to go to the doctor’s and the store, so Lucas thought he had a fairly good chance of catching her at home.

And, sure enough, she was the one to answer the door. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, one hand pressed to the small of her back, as if standing up even this much pained her. “Lucas?”

“Hi, Angela,” he replied, already feeling guilty for barging in on her so unexpectedly. All this mess with Margot must have screwed up his head even more than he thought. “Sorry I didn’t call, but — ”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Come on in. Connor didn’t tell me you were coming over.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell him.”

She sent him a searching glance, as if trying to determine just by looking at him what his reason for being here really was. “Well, he’s up in his studio. I can call him.”

“That all right,” Lucas said quickly. “I actually came over to talk to you.”

For a second, she didn’t reply. Then he saw her shrug. “Is this about Margot?”

“Uh — why would you ask that?”

“Because when Connor came home last night, he told me you’d been on the gallery walk with her. He said he nearly fell over when he saw you walk into Red Rock Illuminations together.”

Oh, right. Of course Connor would have told Angela all about that. “Well, yes,” he admitted. “I hope you don’t mind me picking your brain.”

“There’s not much to pick, but come on in.” She led him from the entry into the family room, where the flat-screen TV was paused in the middle of a scene showing a very pregnant woman.
A Baby Story?
Probably. Angela picked up the remote and turned off the TV, then settled herself with a sigh on the couch. “I’d offer you some coffee or something, but right now I’m at the stage where it’s serve yourself.”

“No, I’m okay,” Lucas said hurriedly. The poor kid looked totally wrung out, and who could blame her? She was so big with the twins now that she appeared as if a stray breeze would topple her right over. The last thing he wanted was to make her get him something to drink.

She let out a relieved sigh, pushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. There were circles under her eyes, and she didn’t seem quite as blooming as the last time he’d seen her.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Her focus returned to him, and she smiled slightly. “I’m fine. Sleep’s a little tough these days…and I’m someone who’s used to sleeping on her back. No, it’s just that Dr. Ruiz thinks I’m going to need a C-section, and I really didn’t want to have to do that.”

Lucas didn’t have a lot of experience with those sorts of things, but he knew enough to ask, “Have you thought about consulting Eleanor?” The Wilcox healer had delivered a lot of babies, and he still wasn’t entirely sure why Connor and Angela had decided to use a regular ob-gyn instead of the clan’s healer.

“Oh, yeah, I called her first thing. She agrees with Dr. Ruiz, says she probably would’ve sent me to an obstetrician anyway. She did say she’d help me with the scars, that you’d never be able to tell I had surgery.” Another smile, this one rueful. “As if I really care about that. It’s not like I’m much of a bikini girl. But, bottom line is that these babies are big, and I’m not, and so I just have to deal with it.” Angela shifted on the couch, picked up one of the throw pillows, and shoved it behind her, as if attempting to get more support for her back than the couch’s regular cushions allowed. “Anyway, I’m fine. So what did you want to ask about Margot?”

In that moment he was ashamed of his intrusion, wishing he’d had the sense to stay at home and stew on the matter himself, rather than burdening Angela with it. She had enough on her plate already. But, since he was here now, he decided he might as well plunge ahead. “Well — I guess if there’s anything you can tell me that’ll help me figure out what’s going on in her head. I’m getting some mixed signals, and I’m not sure what I should do next.”

For a few seconds, Angela didn’t say anything. When she did speak, her tone was gentle. “Lucas, it’s your life, and you can tell me to butt out, but did you go out and choose the worst woman for you on purpose?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because she’s an elder. Because she’s spent her whole life thinking of you Wilcoxes as the enemy. You don’t just turn that off overnight.”

That’s for damn sure.
But he thought again of how she had responded at first last night. He could tell she’d wanted him, if only for a few seconds before the logic centers in her brain switched on. “I get that. But….” He let the words trail off, then shrugged. “I guess I’m not willing to give up yet. So anything you can tell me would help.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Angela reached back and tugged at the pillow in the small of her back, apparently moving it into a better position. “That is, Margot’s a really private person. She lived with her mother until a about a year ago, when Sylvia moved down to Clarkdale. And Margot’s illusions are amazing — I mean, I can see why they chose her to be an elder.”

“About that,” Lucas broke in. “She seems way too young to be an elder. How did that even happen?”

Angela replied with a lift of her own shoulders. “I really don’t know. I mean, I was just in middle school when Rory McAllister died and they had to get a new elder. My Aunt Rachel told me they chose Margot, and I was just sort of, ‘okay.’ The thought of Margot’s age didn’t really occur to me, because when you’re twelve, everyone seems a lot older, you know?”

He supposed he did know, or at least vaguely remembered. “But you don’t recall anything else about it?”

“Not really. I was more worried about my algebra homework, frankly. Sorry, Lucas, but you’d really do better to ask Rachel about all this.”

That prospect didn’t sound too appealing. Yes, Rachel was beginning to loosen up a bit, mostly because she really did like Connor — pretty much
everyone
liked Connor, actually — but that still didn’t mean Lucas wanted to drive down to Jerome and grill her on the subject of Margot Emory.

Angela must have noted his distinct lack of enthusiasm, because she said, “If I had anything more to tell you, I would. And really, I’m the last person to get all judge-y about impossible relationships. I think you’d be good for Margot. Whether you can convince her of that?” She let out a tiny sigh, hardly more than a breath. “I don’t know.”

Neither did he. Even so, Angela’s remark that he’d be good for Margot buoyed him a bit. He had to keep trying. Sure, a smarter man might have decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, but Lucas knew better. Last night he’d gotten just a glimpse of who she could be, if she only would allow herself, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

“Thanks, Angela,” he said, smiling at her, hoping she could see from his expression that he’d found her input helpful. “I know what I need to do next.”

M
argot lay
in bed past her usual rising time of six-thirty, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if and when she finally got herself dressed and went out, whether the members of her clan would see the stain of Lucas Wilcox’s kiss on her mouth like some latter-day scarlet letter. Surely it had to be visible; she swore she could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers, even twelve hours later.

No, that was silly. She knew what she had done, but since the McAllister clan didn’t currently number any mind readers within its ranks, her secret should be safe enough. Apart from Connor, no one from either family had even been at the gallery walk the night before, so she hadn’t been seen with Lucas. It was going to be fine.

But was it, really?

She showered and dressed, applied her makeup with care, dried her hair and ran a brush through it. The heavy locks lay loose and gleaming on her shoulders, and she decided not to pull them back today. No real reason, except that it promised to be cold, and her hair was warm against her neck. As she did each day, she scrutinized it, wondering when the first strands of gray would appear, and whether she’d wear them proudly or would cast just the teeniest, tiniest illusion spell to cover them up.

Or do what everyone else did, and go to the drugstore for some dye to hide the evidence that she wasn’t twenty-five anymore.

No white hairs had appeared overnight, despite the way she’d tossed and turned, and so she left the bathroom and went to the kitchen. The ritual of making tea calmed her a bit, and by the time she’d sat down at the small round table by the window with her Darjeeling and her sourdough toast, she could almost convince herself that this was just an ordinary day like any other.

Except it wasn’t. It was the day after the night when she’d kissed Lucas Wilcox, had felt her whole body come alive in a way it hadn’t for a very long time. Trying to ignore the effect he’d had on her was like telling the green grass not to grow after a much-needed rain.

And that was it. As much as she wanted to deny what he’d done to her, she couldn’t. Even now, as she sipped her tea and tried very hard not to think of anything at all, memories of him kept crowding her mind — the dark eyes with their heavy fringe of lashes, the mouth that managed to be sensual and amused at the same time, the way the laugh lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. And the harder she tried to banish those images, the more they seemed to be the only thing she could think about.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, even as she rose from the table to wash out her mug and clean the crumbs off the plate. The house had a dishwasher, but she hardly ever used it. Wasteful, when it was only her living here.

Only her. In that moment, she realized how much she hated the very idea of being alone in this house. No one to talk to, no one to care what she did or didn’t do. She kept it clean because it wasn’t in her nature to do otherwise, but really, when you came right down to it, she could let the place go completely, and no one would even notice. Well, except her mother, maybe; Sylvia hadn’t been the world’s greatest housekeeper, and it was Margot who’d taken on that responsibility from about the time she was fourteen. But she’d still make a comment when she dropped by, if it turned out the place wasn’t being kept up to Margot’s usual high standards.

If you hate it, then get out,
she told herself.
It’s time to make the rounds anyway
.

So she fetched a jacket, fluffed her hair over it, and went out. She didn’t bother to lock the door. No one would disturb her cottage, and besides, there wasn’t anything in it she really cared all that much about.

Only now did she realize how much that thought bothered her.

R
achel McAllister had sounded mystified
by Lucas’ request to speak with her, but she didn’t say no. She did tell him that Saturdays were busy and that she wouldn’t be able to see him until after six-thirty. He’d said that was fine, even though he chafed at the delay. To take the edge off, he’d called a few friends for an impromptu round of golf, to which they’d all been agreeable. Might as well; winter was on its way, and opportunities to hit the green would be pretty scarce in the near future.

Since they were all casual acquaintances, fine for discussing the merits of a new driver or the Cardinals’ prospects in the upcoming season and not much else, none of them seemed to notice his preoccupation, how he really wasn’t all that focused on the game. Not that it mattered, as he still came out on top, at two under par. Normally he’d force himself to blow a few shots, just so he wouldn’t always win, but today he wasn’t paying the proper attention.

“Drinks?” Dave asked, dropping his putter into the bag on the back of his cart.