Captivated (4 page)

She was lovely, and, though a head shorter than Morgana, she exuded an odd kind of soothing strength. Her eyes were a soft, calm gray, and they were focused on Morgana. In her arms she carried a box that was overflowing with flowering herbs.

“You didn’t have the sign up,” Anastasia said, “so I came in the front.”

“Let me take that.” Messages passed between the two women. Nash didn’t have to hear them to know it. “Ana, this is Nash Kirkland. Nash, my cousin, Anastasia.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Her voice, low and warm, was as soothing as her eyes.

“You’re not,” Morgana said as Nash got to his feet. “Nash and I were just finished.”

“Just beginning,” he told her. “But we can pick it up later. Nice to meet you,” he said to Anastasia. Then he smiled at Morgana and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Till next time.”

“Nash.” Morgana set the box down and took out a small pot of blooms. “A gift.” She offered it, and her sweetest smile. “Sweet peas,” she explained. “To symbolize departure.”

He couldn’t resist. Leaning over the box, he touched his lips to hers. “For the hell of it.” He sauntered out.

In spite of herself, Morgana chuckled.

Anastasia settled into a chair with a contented sigh. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Nothing to tell. He’s a charming annoyance. A writer with very typical views on witches.”

“Oh.
That
Nash Kirkland.” To please herself, Anastasia picked up Morgana’s half-full goblet and sipped. “The one who wrote that gory movie you and Sebastian dragged me to.”

“It was really quite intelligent and sly.”

“Hmm.” Anastasia drank again. “And gory. Then again, you’ve always enjoyed that kind of thing.”

“Watching evil is an entertaining way to reaffirm good.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, Nash Kirkland does very superior work.”

“That may be. I’d rather watch the Marx Brothers.” Automatically she walked over to check the herbs in Morgana’s window. “I couldn’t help but notice the tension. You looked as if you were about to turn him into a toad when I walked in.”

The thought gave Morgana a moment of sterling pleasure. “I was tempted. Something about that smugness set me off.”

“You’re too easily set off. You did say you were going to work on control, didn’t you, love?”

Scowling, Morgana snatched up Nash’s glass. “He walked out of here on two legs, didn’t he?” She sipped,
and realized instantly it was a mistake. He’d left too much of himself in the wine.

A powerful man, she thought as she set the goblet down again. Despite the easy smile and the relaxed manner, a very powerful man.

She wished she’d thought to charm the flowers she’d given him, but she dismissed the idea immediately. Perhaps something was pushing them together, but she would deal with it. And she would deal with it, and with Nash Kirkland, without magic.

Morgana enjoyed the peace of Sunday afternoons. It was her day to indulge herself—and from her first breath, Morgana had appreciated indulgences. Not that she avoided work. She had put a great deal of time and effort into seeing that her shop ran smoothly and turned a profit—without using her special skills to smooth her path. Still, she firmly believed that the proper reward for any effort was relaxation.

Unlike some business owners, Morgana didn’t agonize over books and inventory and overhead. She simply did what she felt needed to be done, making sure she did it well. Then when she walked away from it—if only for an hour at a time—she forgot business completely.

It amazed Morgana that there were people who would spend a beautiful day inside, biting their nails over ledgers. She hired an accountant to do that.

She hadn’t hired a housekeeper, but only because she didn’t care for the idea of someone poking through her personal things. She, and only she, was their caretaker. Though her gardens were extensive—and she’d long
ago accepted that she would never have the way with growing things that her cousin Anastasia had—she tended the blooms herself. She found the cycle—planting, watering, weeding, harvesting—rewarding.

She knelt now, in a strong stream of sunlight, at the extensive rockery where her herbs and spring bulbs thrived. There was the scent of rosemary, of hyacinth, the delicacy of jasmine, the richness of anise. Music drifted through the windows, the penny whistles and flutes of a traditional Irish folk tune, clashing cheerfully with the surge and thrust of water spewing up from the rocks a few hundred yards behind her.

It was one of those precious and perfect days, with the sky spread overhead like clear blue glass and the wind, light and playful, carrying the scents of water and wildflowers. From beyond the low wall and sheltering trees at the front of her property, she could hear the occasional swish of a car as tourists or natives took in the
scenery.

Luna was sprawled nearby in a patch of sunlight, her eyes slitted, nearly closed, her tail switching occasionally as she watched birds. If Morgana weren’t there, she might have tried for a snack—for all her bulk, she could move like lightning. But her mistress was very firm about such habits.

When the dog padded over to drop his head into Morgana’s lap, Luna gave a mutter of disgust and went to sleep. Dogs had no pride.

Content, Morgana sat back on her heels, ruffling the dog’s fur with one hand as she surveyed her rockery. Perhaps she would pluck a few sprigs—she was running low on angelica balm and hyssop powder. Tonight, she decided. If there was a moon. Such things were best done by moonlight.

For now, she would enjoy the sun, lifting her face to it, letting its warmth and life pour over her skin. She could never sit here without feeling the beauty of this spot, this place where she had been born. Though she had traveled to many other lands, seen many magic places, it was here she belonged.

For it was here, she had learned long ago, that she would find love, share love, and bear her children. With a sigh, Morgana closed her eyes. Those days could wait, she mused. She was content with her life precisely as it was. When the time came for it to change, she intended to remain fully in charge.

When the dog sprang to his feet, a warning growl humming in his throat, Morgana didn’t bother to look
around. She’d known he’d come. She hadn’t needed the crystal or the black mirror to tell her. Nor could she claim it was clairvoyance—that was more her cousin Sebastian’s territory. She’d needed only to be a woman to know.

She sat, smiling, while the dog sent out a series of rapid, unfriendly barks. She would see just how Nash Kirkland handled the situation.

How was a man supposed to react when the woman he’d come to see was being guarded by a . . . he was sure it couldn’t really be a wolf, but it sure as hell looked like one. He was doubly sure that if she gave the word the sleek silver beast would take one long leap and go for his throat.

Nash cleared that throat, then jolted when something brushed his leg. Glancing down, he noted that Luna,
at least, had decided to be friendly. “Nice dog you got there,” he said cautiously. “Nice, big dog.”

Morgana deigned to glance over her shoulder. “Out for a Sunday drive?”

“More or less.”

The dog had subsided into those low, dangerous growls again. Nash felt a bead of sweat slide down his back as the mass of muscle and teeth stalked toward him to sniff at his shoes. “I, ah . . .” Then the dog looked up, and Nash was struck by the gleam of deep blue eyes against that silver fur. “God, you’re a beauty, aren’t you?” He held out a hand, sincerely hoping the dog would let him keep it. It was sniffed thoroughly, then rewarded with a lick.

Lips pursed, Morgana studied them. Pan had never so much as nipped anyone’s ankle, but neither was he given to making friends so quickly. “You have a way with animals.”

Nash was already crouched down to give the dog a brisk scratching. All throughout his childhood he’d yearned for a dog. It surprised him to realize that his boyhood desire had never quite faded. “They know I’m just a kid at heart. What breed is he?”

“Pan?” Her smile was slow and secret. “We’ll just say he’s a Donovan. What can I do for you, Nash?”

He looked over. She was in the sunlight, her hair bundled under a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her jeans were too tight, and her T-shirt was too baggy. Because she hadn’t used gardening gloves, her hands were smeared with
rich, dark earth. Her feet were bare. It hadn’t occurred to him that bare feet could be sexy. Until now.

“Besides that,” she said, with such an easy ripple of amusement in her voice that he had to grin.

“Sorry. My mind was wandering.”

It didn’t offend her to be found desirable. “Why don’t you start with telling me how you found me?”

“Come on, honey, you know you’ve got a reputation.” He rose to walk over and sit on the grass beside her. “I had dinner in the place beside your shop, struck up a conversation with my waitress.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

He reached over to toy with the amulet she wore. An interesting piece, he thought, shaped like a half-moon and inscribed in—Greek? Arabic? He was no scholar. “Anyway, she was a fount of information. Fascinated and
spooked. Do you affect a lot of people that way?”

“Legions.” And she’d learned to enjoy it. “Did she tell you that I ride over the bay on my broomstick every full moon?”

“Close enough.” He let the amulet drop. “It interests me how ordinarily intelligent people allow themselves to get caught up in the supernatural.”

“Isn’t that how you make your living?”

“Exactly. And, speaking of my living, I figure you and I started off wrong. How about a clean slate?”

It was hard to be annoyed with an attractive man on a beautiful day. “How about it?”

He thought it might be wise to take the conversation where he wanted by way of the back door. “You know a lot about flowers and stuff?”

“A few things.” She shifted to finish planting a fresh pot of lemon balm.

“Maybe you can tell me what I’ve got in my yard and what I should do about it?”

“Hire a gardening service,” she said. Then she relented and smiled. “I suppose I might find time to take a look.”

“I’d really appreciate it.” He brushed at a smear of dirt on her chin. “You really could help me with the script, Morgana. It’s no problem getting things out of books—anyone can do that. What I’m looking for is a
different slant, something more personal. And I—”

“What is it?”

“You have stars in your eyes,” he murmured. “Little gold stars . . . like sunlight on a midnight sea. But you can’t have the sun at midnight.”

“You can have anything if you know how to get it.” Those fabulous eyes held his. He couldn’t have looked away to save his soul. “Tell me what you want, Nash.”

“To give people a couple of enjoyable hours. To know they’ll forget problems, reality, everything, when they step into my world. A good story’s like a door, and you can go through it whenever you need to. After you’ve read it or seen it or heard it, you can still go back through it. Once it’s yours, it’s always yours.”

He broke off, startled and embarrassed. This kind of philosophizing didn’t fit in with his carefree image. He’d had expert interviewers dig at him for hours without unearthing a statement as simple and genuine as that. And all she’d done was ask.

“And, of course, I want to make pots of money,” he added, trying to grin. His head felt light, his skin too warm.

“I don’t see that one desire has to be exclusive of the other. There have been storytellers in my family from the fairy days down to my mother. We understand the value of stories.”

Perhaps that was why she hadn’t dismissed him from the outset. She respected what he did. That, too, was in her blood.

“Consider this.” She leaned forward, and he felt the punch of something in his gut, something that went beyond her beauty. “If I agree to help you, I refuse to let you fall back on the lowest common denominator. The old crone, cackling as she mixes henbane in the cauldron.”

He smiled. “Convince me.”

“Be careful what you dare, Nash,” she murmured, rising. “Come inside. I’m thirsty.”

Since he was no longer worried about being chewed up by her guard dog, who was now strolling contentedly beside them, Nash took time to admire her house. He already knew that many of the homes along
the Monterey Peninsula were extraordinary and unique. He’d bought one himself. Morgana’s had the added allure of age and grace.

It was three stories of stone, turreted and towered—to suit a witch, he supposed. But it was neither Gothic nor grim. Tall, graceful windows flashed in the sunlight, and climbing flowers crept up the walls to twine and tangle in lacy ironwork. Carved into the stone were winged fairies and mermaids, adding charm. Lovely robed figures served as rainspouts.

Interior scene, night, he mused. Inside the topmost tower of the old stone house by the sea, the beautiful young witch sits in a ring of candles. The room is shadowy, with the light fluttering over the faces of statues, the stems of silver goblets, a clear orb of crystal. She wears a sheer white robe open to the waist. A heavy carved
amulet hangs between the swell of her breasts. A deep hum seems to come from the stones themselves as she lifts two photographs high in the air.

The candles flicker. A wind rises within the closed room to lift her hair and ripple the robe. She chants. Ancient words, in a low, smoldering voice. She touches the photos to the candle flame. . . . No, scratch that. She . . . yeah, she sprinkles the photos with the glowing liquid from a cracked blue bowl. A hiss of steam. The humming takes on a slow, sinuous beat. Her body sways with it as she places the photos face-to-face, laying them on a silver tray. A secret smile crosses her face as the photos fuse together.

Fade out.

He liked it, though he figured she could add a bit more color to the casting of a love spell.

Content with his silence, Morgana took him around the side of the house, where the sound of water on rock rumbled and the cypress grove, trees bent and gnarled by time and wind, stood watch. They crossed a stone patio shaped like a pentagram, at whose top point stood a brass statue of a woman. Water gurgled in a tiny pool at her feet.