Authors: Heather Graham
Startled, Serena momentarily forgot that she was in a miserable position. She twisted in the sports car’s bucket seat to watch him, “Really? I don’t get it—you don’t believe in magic …”
“I don’t,” he told her; “But the majority of the people living during the seventeenth century did. And back then—just like now—there were people practicing witchcraft. Bridget Bishop, the first woman to be hanged in Salem, was definitely fooling around with the black arts. Of course, a lot of innocent people suffered. I doubt if more than four of those who lost their lives ever dabbled in the occult, and out of the hundreds who went to jail, there still probably weren’t more than a dozen who were actually witches.” He glanced her way with a smile again. “That’s where the hysteria comes in. Power of suggestion and all that. I plan to look into several theories that might explain the fits and illnesses of the accused girls. Comparisons with mental patients of the French psychologist Charcot and other doctors of later years. I want to explore the possibility of food poisoning—don’t laugh, there is a bacteria that grows on wheat that can give one delusions similar to an LSD trip.”
Serena did laugh, but surprisingly with pleasure. “I’m
not
laughing at your theory,” she explained quickly. “I’m laughing because I love the sound of the book! It sounds fascinating. Oh, I always feel so sorry for the people who were falsely accused and executed, but I just hate to read all these things where the authors peg the Puritan preacher Cotton Mather as a raving maniac on a crusade. From studying the trial documents, you can see that the leaders tried to be very careful. …”
Her voice died away suddenly, and she blushed, turning from him to glance out the window. She hadn’t imagined she could possibly find herself speaking to him with such enthusiasm.
Serena cleared her throat and started speaking again with cool and polite formality.
“So you’re not into purging Puritans and you don’t believe in magic but you do believe in the practice of witchcraft. I assume you don’t believe in haunts or spooks. Why are you staying at the Golden Hawk?”
“Oh,” he replied vaguely, “even ‘clinical’ writers like a bit of atmosphere.”
He pulled off the road as he spoke and parked in front of a freshly painted, white colonial house. Dim light gleamed from the open windows, and the sounds of clinking silver and mellow chatter could be heard along with soft piano music.
“Ever been here?” he inquired.
Serena shook her head. She hadn’t thought to ask where they were going; she had been too concerned about what would be said. And now she realized she hadn’t even noticed they had driven north of Salem and Danvers.
“Neither have I,” Justin said with a grin and a shrug. “I met my fellow roomers when they returned from their whale-watching trip, and the silver-haired lady—Mrs. Donnesy?” At Serena’s nod he continued, “Mrs. Donnesy assured me they make the best New England clam chowder in New England.”
Once more Serena found herself chuckling, and then choking on her chuckle as he swung from his seat, slammed his door, and strode around to take her arm as she exited from the car. Just twenty-four hours ago they had met and become instant lovers. And then instant enemies.
And now they seemed to be on some type of an awkward date. Well, maybe he wasn’t feeling awkward, but she was still ready to die.
Half the time, at least. …
They were seated at a quiet corner table. Justin lifted his brow slightly as she ordered a double Manhattan, the corners of his lips twisting as he repeated her preference to the waiter. It was apparent to them both that she needed a stiff drink.
When the waiter left, Justin watched her silently across the table. Serena stared back, studying the planes of his face. His features were very hard, she thought, and yet pleasantly assembled. His nose was very sharp, yet looked appropriate, set between the deep widespread eyes. His was a no-nonsense face, ruggedly uncompromising, but shiveringly compelling. His eyes were both keen and fathomless as he returned her scrutiny, and she almost smiled with the thought that one had only to look at him to realize he was as sharp as a whip. How could she have ever tried to tell herself that he was nothing more than macho muscle? It shouldn’t have been at all surprising to learn that he was Dr. O’Neill.
Their drinks were set before them. Justin O’Neill saluted her with a mockingly raised brow.
Serena downed half her glass with the first sip.
“Ummm,” he murmured elusively, adding, “You certainly are nervous, aren’t you, Mrs. Loren.”
Serena shrugged.
“Nervous and quiet,” he said dryly. “Okay, I’ll start. I had begun to think you were really playing musical beds, but I do realize now that you’re a widow. So tell me now about Marc.”
Serena had taken another nervous sip at her drink, which now choked her. What on earth was he trying to get at?
She gasped for air and swallowed several times as he watched her with his barely discernible, knowing grin. “Tell you what about Marc?” she snapped. “You’ve met him. He’s a writer. He’s thirty-three, five eleven, I believe, and about—”
“Spare me the statistics,” Justin interrupted her, his eyes intense now and his smile gone. “I want to know about your relationship.”
Serena would have loved to kick herself for the flood of brilliant crimson that heated her face. How could she allow him to affect her this way? “I will not!” she declared firmly. “My relationships are none of your business!”
“They certainly are—you owe me an explanation.”
“I owe you!” She almost shrieked the words, then closed her eyes and bit her lip as she noticed she had attracted several pairs of curious eyes to their table. She lowered her voice and hissed, “I don’t owe you a thing.”
“Have you decided?” he inquired politely.
“On what?”
“Dinner. Remember, it’s the meal one eats at night. That’s why we’re sitting in a restaurant. That card you’re holding is a menu, and from it, you pick what you’d like—”
“Thank you, Professor,” Serena interrupted sarcastically. “I know this is a menu, but I really don’t care what I eat. Dinner was your idea, and I’m really not terribly hungry.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, glancing at his menu, “you do owe me an explanation.” He glanced back up at her. “Mrs. Donnesy suggested the prime rib.”
“Fine.”
His brows lifted. “Well?”
Serena shook her head in confusion. “Well what?”
“The explanation.”
She was starting to shriek with frustration again. “I don’t owe you a thing!” In her effort to quietly but vehemently make her point, she leaned far over the table. “You accosted me on my own property and disappeared, and now—”
“Accosted?” His protest was voiced with mocking irritation.
“All right—seduced!” Serena snapped, her whisper lost to aggravation. Justin lowered his head with a grin, and Serena realized that she once more had the attention of the neighboring tables.
“Oh, God,” she moaned softly. “Don’t you realize you are embarrassing me terribly?” she demanded.
“A little embarrassment is going to be worth getting a few things straight,” Justin replied pragmatically.
The waiter appeared before she could reply. Justin ordered the prime rib for them both. When the waiter had disappeared, Serena clenched her hands beneath the table and forced herself to speak softly and calmly. “Dr. O’Neill, you seduced me and left me so you could rush off to another dinner engagement. That’s fine—that’s your business—”
“Objection!” He leaned across the table, and she shivered slightly as she came in such close contact with his eyes. “I’m sure you’re the one who seduced me.”
“The hell I did! I was going swimming—”
“Do you often do things like that?”
“Of course not.”
He lowered his lashes with a half smile curling his lip. “What was it then, Mrs. Loren, magic?”
Serena was saved by the arrival of their salads. She moved her lettuce around with her fork, started to speak, paused, and began again. “Dr. O’Neill, don’t you see how pointless this all is—”
“No, I don’t. For one, I didn’t leave you. I tried to get a flashlight so that we could talk, and I returned to discover that you’d vanished.”
“And then you must have cried all night,” Serena observed dryly. “Or for all of two minutes, at least. It didn’t take you long to assuage your pain with the lady in Boston.”
“You’re trying to hang me for that?” Justin demanded with a laugh, almost choking on a cucumber. “You made it to Boston—assuaging your pain—with greater speed than I did.”
Serena set her fork down. He was right. They had both had commitments; they had both met them. Neither had planned on the extraordinary meeting at the pond.
She nibbled her lip for a moment with her eyes shielded by the fringe of her lashes, then murmured, “I still don’t see where this ‘talk’ is taking us. Justin, you just made a marvelous point. We both had to be in Boston for dinner commitments.”
“I don’t think you’re getting the point at all this evening,” he said slowly. “I want to know just what your commitment is.” He watched her as he gave up all pretense of interest in his salad and sipped the dark rum, anejo, with lime. The piercing quality in his eyes made her shiver slightly, and she remembered that from the very first she had thought he would be a man who demanded all.
Serena pushed her own salad aside and drew a ring around the rim of her glass with her forefinger. “Perhaps, Dr. O’Neill, you might like to start with an explanation of your own commitments.”
“Certainly,” he replied without a blink. “I have none.”
“None?” Serena raised a skeptical brow. “You’ll excuse me,” she added dryly, “for noticing that you seemed well acquainted with the brunette in Boston.”
“I am well acquainted,” he said levelly. “But I am not committed.” His hand came across the table, broad and yet tapered. Serena found herself staring at his neatly clipped nails as his fingers arrested the movement of hers over the glass rim.
“Your turn,” he informed her grimly.
“Are you engaged?”
“No. I—”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
Serena wrenched her fingers from his, furious to feel the heat he could so easily stir fanning across her cheeks. “How dare you ask me a question like that! You’re crazy if you think an absurd meeting in the woods gives you any right—”
She broke off, further irritated to see he was shielding his eyes from her with lowered lashes, and that he was apparently attempting to hide the grin that was tugging at his full lips.
“What the hell is so damned amusing?” she demanded.
His eyes rose to hers, and he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re not sleeping with him.”
“Dammit!” Serena grated out, feeling the hot blush pervade her body from head to toe. Her fingers wound tightly around her glass, and she glared at him with her eyes blazing the wrath which was compounded by the terrible effect he had upon her. “I certainly didn’t say that I wasn’t—”
“You didn’t have to say anything,” he interrupted coolly.
“Your ego must be the size of your biceps,” Serena snapped.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told her impatiently, falling silent as their barely touched salad bowls were whisked away to be replaced by steaming plates of succulent prime rib. He smoothly thanked the waiter and assured the man they needed nothing else for the time, then waited, his hazel eyes keen and penetrating, until he could speak in privacy once more. Picking up his fork and knife, he cut, chewed, and swallowed a piece of meat before continuing.
“None of this has anything to do with ego,” he told her. “It all has to do with the fact we met. I want to see you again. I want to get to know you—”
He was interrupted by brittle laughter, and Serena realized the sound came from herself. “Oh, really, Dr. O’Neill! Don’t you think the old lines are a bit silly coming now? Aren’t those the usual preliminaries to ‘your place or mine’? I mean, none of this is necessary—”
“Do you not listen?” Justin O’Neill broke in irritably, a man whose patience had snapped. “Or do you merely not comprehend? I said I want to get to know you. You’re right,” he said harshly, savaging his prime rib as he spoke. “The preliminaries were never necessary. For
either
of us. Which is rather unique, don’t you think? No games, no pretenses—just something extraordinary and very beautiful. Now I think an experience like that deserves something—an admission from the man and woman involved, and mature handling.”
She was trembling, Serena realized. Trembling and sawing at her meat as he did and tasting nothing when she chewed.
He is right, she thought, I keep trying to hide, to pretend that nothing had happened.
But I don’t know anything about him, she thought with panic. What is he asking of me? What does he intend to give?
She forced herself to taste the prime rib. To think. To answer without anger or indignation. Still she trembled, and her words faltered.
“You’re seeing me right now, Justin,” she murmured. “And you’re staying in my home. I—I’m not trying to lie to either of us—you’re right, what happened was extraordinary, and to deny it would be to—to cheapen it. …” Her voice trailed away for a second. “But what happened doesn’t change reality—yours or mine. No, I’m not engaged. And think what you please, my sleeping habits are my own concern. But, yes, I do have a relationship with Marc Talbot. A long relationship. I can’t tell Marc to go to hell just because I met a stranger at a pond.”
Serena saw his fist clench; he almost drove it against the table, then tightened his jaw, a pulse ticking, and slowly relaxed.
“Finish eating,” he said curtly. “This really isn’t a conversation which should take place in a public place.”
Oh, God, Serena wondered, her heart pounding cruelly, where should it take place? His knees brushed against hers beneath the table, and with even that casual touch, she could remember how electrifying and powerful he could be. Heat continued to consume her, dancing along her spine, to be replaced in spurts by rampant chills. I can’t be alone with him, she thought. I don’t want to feel like this, like I have no control over what I really want to do.
But she was chewing as she thought. And when she set her fork down without finishing half her meal, she miserably lowered her lashes over her eyes with the admission that there was something deep within her, hiding behind a door she couldn’t lock, that wanted him again, wanted just what he was asking, a chance to be known by him, to know him, to understand the keen mind within the hard-toned body.