Authors: Heather Graham
And he was anxious to hold her again. He was already wondering if anything could have been so damned good … or had it just been the twilight, playing tricks upon his senses?
When he reached the pond again, he incredulously discovered that she was gone. Vanished. Without a trace.
He felt as if he were a madman—rushing about the place like an idiot, searching the foliage high and low, then standing there like a fool with his light trained upon the water.
She simply wasn’t there. Not a sign of her. The entire interlude might not have been.
As he stared at the water, a horror engulfed him. What if she hadn’t felt so wonderful about the experience? He didn’t know a damned thing about her. She might be mentally unbalanced. She might have …
He dropped the flashlight and dove into the water, surfaced, dove again. Over and over, until he had covered—as best he could in the darkness—the entire pond.
Then he got up to sit by the shoreline, feeling even more like an idiot—and more furious.
Now if he found her, he wanted to throttle her!
He panted to regain his breath after his efforts and finally puffed out an exasperated sigh. Incredible. It appeared now as if he sat before nothing more than a dark pond. Nothing could have happened here. His experience with a witch at twilight might have been a date with magic.
He stood with an impatient grumble. He didn’t believe in magic—and his witch had been a flesh and blood woman. And he would find her even if it meant searching not just Salem, but all of Massachusetts.
Muttering disgustedly to himself, he started back for the car a second time. He found his way easily with the flashlight; but he felt uncomfortable because his clothes were sopping wet; his green Izod dripped on his cutoffs which in turn dripped on his sandals and his bare toes.
He was muttering as he drove into Salem—only to discover that he hadn’t read his map well. The road he should have been on ran parallel to the one he had taken. He had to backtrack to find the inn, wondering all the while how the proprietress would greet a soaking wet guest.
But the smiling, middle-aged woman who answered the door merely clucked over his appearance, warning him that while July days were hot in Salem, the nights could become very cool. She ushered him into a warm parlor while promising hot coffee and towels. He had to duck to enter the parlor—the room was part of the original house and built with a low ceiling.
“You’ll have to forgive a few idiosyncrasies, Dr. O’Neill,” the woman offered with a cheerful smile. “We only let out three rooms, you know, and we don’t operate like a regular guesthouse. Breakfast is promptly at eight, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. And I’d appreciate it if you would let me know when you intend to miss meals—but on the other hand, if you have a special preference, you let me know, and I’ll get it on the table for you. I’m afraid your room has a bath but no shower, and you’ll find a few other inconveniences—”
“Please!” Justin laughed. “I know all about the Golden Hawk—and that’s why I’m here.” He smiled. “If you’ll just let me know what to call you, ma’am—”
“Oh! I’m Martha, Martha Heyer.”
“Mrs. Heyer, I’ll be as happy as a lark here, I assure you.”
“Martha,” Martha corrected, as awed by the man’s smile as by his tight, muscular build. He looked far more like a gladiator than a professor, of all things. She smiled to herself in return. She had assumed Dr. Justin O’Neill would be a stooped old man with bifocals and a cane.
“Oh!” Martha muttered suddenly, handing him a cup of coffee from a pewter pot that sat over a small woodburning stove. “Dear me, Dr. O’Neill! I forgot with you coming in dripping wet and all! I’ve a message for you. From a lady says her name is Denise! She called hours ago—we did expect you earlier—and asked that I tell you she was flying into Boston—wants to meet you at the Sheraton. Dinner at ten o’clock. But if you can’t make it, no problem. She’ll drive out here—”
“Oh, hell!” Justin muttered, forgetting Martha for a moment. Then he glanced at her to apologize. “Sorry, but could I have my room key?” He glanced at his watch. Nine twenty. Twenty minutes for a shower, no, bath, twenty minutes to make it back to Boston. But he had to make it. Damn, what was she doing following him out here? He had made it clear he wanted the summer alone to work.
Denise would probably have some good reason for being in Boston.
And he probably wouldn’t be feeling so antagonistic if it hadn’t been for his meeting with a witch at a pond.
But even though he was ready to throttle that nameless witch, he was haunted by her. She had been uniquely special, and suddenly, he felt as if he could settle for nothing less. He had to find out first if that feeling was real; if she had been as warm and giving as memory now decreed and if the fever she had left in his blood truly existed.
“Thank you.” He was leaving as Martha Heyer handed him his keys, explaining that one was to the front door, the other to his room. He grimaced at the woman. “I guess I’m going to have to hurry to make a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Don’t drive too fast!” Martha warned. “No appointment is worth a life!”
“No.” Justin smiled. “I won’t drive too fast.”
“Your room is just left at the top of the stairs.” Martha smiled, feeling a little foolish that she instinctively liked the man so. “Feel free to raid the refrigerator or make use of the kitchen or the parlor when you return. I retire a bit early, but we like our guests to feel at home. Just be careful about wandering around—the house has a few tricks to it!”
“So I’ve heard,” Justin returned, setting his coffee cup down and ducking as he passed Martha to head for the main stairway. “I’m anxious to hear all about it. Perhaps you’ll give me some history tomorrow.”
“That’s right, you’re a writer, eh?”
“Professor, not really a writer. Not as in the sense of the classics. I’m doing a book on the psychology of the witchcraft trials.”
“Oh, I see,” Martha murmured, but she didn’t really see at all. She shook her head slightly. He didn’t look the type to be at all bookish. But Salem attracted all kinds.
“Well, anyway, Dr. O’Neill,” Martha offered, “you talk to Serena in the morning. She’s the one knows all about the place. Oh—and incidentally, she runs a little museum you might enjoy.”
“Serena?” He wasn’t really listening anymore; he was in a hurry to get upstairs, bathe and dress and get back to Boston to find out what Denise was up to before he wound up with his summer a nightmare.
“Umm, Mrs. Loren—she owns the place. You just missed her—but like I said, you’ll meet her in the morning. Whatever you’re up to, I’m sure she’ll be able to help.”
“Thank you again, Martha,” Justin said quickly, bumping his head on the low ceiling as he hurried to reach the stairway. “I’m sure I will get a lot from … Serena.”
He didn’t have much time to appreciate the beautiful lines of the old house, or the history captured in its architecture as he reached his room, tossed down his cases, and ran his bath. He barely noticed that all the furnishings were authentic antiques; yet he did appreciate the little hospitalities, such as fresh flowers in a vase, a note of welcome in a feminine hand, and towels in the bath that smelled of sunshine rather than a laundry.
Tomorrow, he would get into the spirit of the thing, but now …
His anger grew as he bathed and dressed in a casual tweed dinner jacket. Denise was manipulating him—and yet, he shouldn’t really be angry with Denise. He had kept the affair going.
But tonight, of all nights, he didn’t want to see her. He wanted to savor the magic, the magic he didn’t believe in.
“I’m going to find that woman!” he growled aloud.
And then he laughed at himself. More than likely, he’d never see her again, no matter how strong his determination. He had no right to behave cruelly to Denise because he had been spurned by a mystery witch.
When he dealt with Denise, he wanted to do so honestly. He wanted her to understand his feelings, to respect them. He had always been honest. He could only give her so much, and if it wasn’t enough, then that was that.
But when he left his room, he could have sworn he sensed a smell of roses. And he couldn’t get that incredibly erotic and yet innocent vision of his white witch out of his mind. The memory of her ivory skin sleek and glistening as she stretched to embrace the twilight lingered.
And as he revved his car into gear again, he was once more muttering that he would find “that damned woman,” and when he did, he would certainly either throttle her, or tan her bewitching rear!
But he didn’t believe in witchcraft—his witch was real, she was flesh and blood. And what she gave was real; he had never known a woman so sensual, so sweetly innocent yet fully passionate. And they hadn’t yet begun to really explore a half of the intimacies awaiting them.
There was no pretense about her, he thought wryly; that was a part of her ultimate beauty.
His lips went thin across his jaw as he thought about her swift vanishing act, but he knew he would find her.
“S
ERENA, JERRY WAS TALKING
to you.”
Jolted back to the present, Serena Loren was greeted by a stern frown from her escort, Marc Talbot. She met his suspiciously narrowed eyes with guilt twisting at her heart, then quickly glanced to the third party at their dinner party, Jerry Kloon, Marc’s publisher. She smiled uneasily and hastily apologized. “I’m sorry, Jerry, I’m afraid I simply blanked there for a moment. What were you saying?”
“I asked what you thought of Marc’s idea, Serena,” the handsome older man with silver hair and beard of the same color said with a small, understanding smile. “The inn does belong to you.”
“Oh,” Serena said uneasily, drawing her eyes from Jerry’s to stare at her water glass. She ran a manicured finger idly over the crystal rim as she stalled for a little time. Then she smiled back to Jerry. “I have great faith in Marc’s work,” she said sincerely. “I think he’ll do just fine.”
Kloon smiled down at his own plate, admiring the evasive poise of the uniquely arresting woman with whom he conversed. Her sense of loyalty would not allow her to dispute Marc, but Kloon was well aware that she didn’t support Marc’s theories, despite the fact that her replies were as smooth as the elegant column of her throat and the clean lines of her lovely face.
“That’s not quite what I asked,” Jerry Kloon said, carefully dabbing his distinguished handlebar mustache with the corner of his napkin. “Do you believe that the Golden Hawk houses ghosts, spooks, poltergeists, or other entities of the night?”
She wished she would have worn her hair down so that she might hide behind it. She wished she would have been paying attention to the previous conversation. She wished she would have been on time, so that Marc wasn’t half prepared to strangle her already.
She wished desperately she could explain to herself what had happened earlier so that she didn’t now feel so incredibly bewildered when it was so terribly important she speak intelligently.
“I think that Marc will be able to create a marvelous book!” she said with enthusiasm. “There are fantastic stories that go with the history of the inn! The wife of an eighteenth century sea captain is claimed to prowl the widow’s walk—and they did find the bones of a young girl sealed into one of the hidden stairways! It’s said that she was accused of witchcraft during the 1692 trials, and that her husband, a ferociously jealous man, swore to protect her, but believed her guilty not of witchcraft, but adultery, and therefore sealed her to her fate! The legends that surround the place are really marvelous!” Serena finished speaking, and quickly picked up her wineglass to take a long sip. Her heart was thudding painfully as she prayed Jerry Kloon would allow the subject to drop. Marc, she knew, was desperate to do the book. And at the moment, she was so guilt-ridden that there was nothing she wanted to see more than Marc happy and secure.
Kloon didn’t intend to let the matter rest. He lifted a brow high in skepticism. “But I take it you don’t believe in haunts yourself, Serena, nor ghosts of any kind.”
Serena flushed uneasily. “I don’t see where my beliefs are relevant, Mr. Kloon,” she murmured. “What is important is how competently a writer can deal with the legends.”
Kloon shrugged his brows noncommittally, and Marc, his brown eyes now anxious, jumped into the pause. “Don’t let Serena fool you with her blasé appearance, sir. I believe she’s afraid of her own perception—she has ESP, you know.”
“Oh, is that true?” Kloon cast a piercing stare Serena’s way.
Serena wanted to kick Marc. “I don’t believe I actually have ESP, sir, no more so than the average person, at any rate. I have a brother ten months younger than I am. We were very close growing up, and we can sometimes sense things about each other. Most close siblings have that ability.”
“You never know,” Kloon said. He tapped his fingers upon the snow-white linen tablecloth, apparently deep in thought. “Well,” he said, glancing from one anxious face to the other, “would you care for dessert or a liqueur? Or perhaps you would like to stroll with me back to my hotel? They have a lovely little lounge that specializes in South Seas concoctions—piña-coladas they serve in ceramic coconuts, something marvelous with dry ice that puffs and sizzles and the like.”
Serena opened her mouth to decline. It was growing very late, and as well as the Golden Hawk itself, she had another business to run, one that required her presence bright and early.
“I’d like to try one of those smoking things,” Marc said eagerly, casting a warning eye Serena’s way. “And we have to walk back to the hotel anyway. My car is in the garage.”
Kloon signaled for the check; Serena tried to appear enthusiastic rather than tired as they left the restaurant behind, taking one last glance at the magnificent view of the Boston streets from the top of the Prudential. Serena became quickly aware from Marc’s rough escorting touch that he was less than pleased with her comments. The walk from the Prudential to the Sheraton lounge seemed interminably long.
I couldn’t lie to him, Marc, she pleaded silently. He would have known I was lying, and that would have been much worse.