He suckled the hardened nipple until she groaned. His hands, barely touching her, sent tingles everywhere he moved. The current ran hotter and hotter.
She couldn’t get enough of him. Her hands explored his body as though he were a sculpture yet to be formed under her care.
Her caress left him weak.
Morgan felt like she was on an altar, a sacrifice to a god of love. Slowly, he entered her, his deep blue eyes enslaving her gaze. He began to move. The air swirled around them caressing them with warm, damp tendrils. He took her hands in his, locking their fingers, raising them above her head. She could feel the current moving from him to her and back. The more excited they became, the faster the current flowed, wrapping them in a pulsating blanket. His look held hers and he breathed, “We are one.” Simultaneous orgasms ripped through them.
As her breathing returned to normal, her eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his side, his head resting on his hand, watching her. She glanced over his shoulder and sat up. The whole cavern had taken on an amethyst hue. His fingers traced down her side.
Then, he sat up and jumped down from the formation. Holding out his hand, he laughed, “Come, my grotto nymph, unto the waters.”
Morgan took his hand and followed him. Several rocks jutted out forming steps and they stepped down, walking until they were waist deep—his waist, her breast—in water. The water was warm and felt like it fizzled.
“I thought it would be cold, being fed by a spring.” She let her hand float across the surface. “It’s like swimming in a giant fizzy,” she laughed, then lay back in the water and floated.
The color had returned to the brilliant blue green. The rocks sparkled.
“It’s so beautiful here,” she sighed and let the bubbles break against her skin.
“No, you’re what’s beautiful,” he said, his eyes devouring her body.
Time slipped away. They played. They made love. They explored one another and the cave. They ate lunch, sitting naked on a blanket in their own private world. He showed her how he could throw electric balls of light, having them burst against the walls. He held his hands up, moving them slowly down, and she felt them glide down her body, stroking her, even though he stood five feet away.
When they had dressed and were ready to head back, Morgan took one last look. She wanted to memorized every feature, every nuance. Her body felt languid and had that pleasant ache of being well loved.
“We’ll be back.”
“I know. It’s just that this was so special.”
He leaned in and kissed her. They clasped hands and began the trek back.
Meesha came dashing across the meadow. Bounding, leaping through the lavender, she yapped and danced around them as though they’d been gone a year. Dorian knelt, ruffling her fur. “We haven’t been gone that long. You didn’t starve.”
She circled around them, sat back and cocked her head. Then, she went first to Dorian, licked his hand, then to Morgan, giving her the same attention.
“I guess it’s official,” he laughed, “we’re a couple.”
Morgan laughed, “Well, as long as she approves.”
As they approached the back gate, Meesha stopped, her fur hackled, and she growled a low, warning growl. Dorian threw open the gate and rushed inside. Everything looked normal. He flew up the steps to the shop, started to unlock the door when he noticed Meesha wasn’t staring at the shop, but the cottage.
“Damn,” he exclaimed and ran back to the cottage. Although the door was closed, it was obvious the lock had been jimmied. He pushed the door open with his foot. It creaked.
Morgan grabbed his arm. It was warm to the touch and she felt his energy heighten. “Be careful,” she whispered.
“I think they’re long gone.”
She could see the frustration in his expression. He pushed the door open the rest of the way and Meesha dashed inside. “If someone was here, we’d know it.”
They followed the dog into the cottage. It was in shambles. Cushions on the floor, the bed tossed. Morgan looked around. “What were they after?”
“They got what they came for…” he frowned and went to the mantel.
The beautiful stones were gone. Morgan looked at the window. It, too, had been cleared of stones and rocks. She walked into the bedroom and the bathroom. Every last one of the crystals was gone.
“We better call the police.” Morgan looked more closely. The braided rug, which had lain in front of the French doors to the bedroom, the one they’d stood on the first day they opened the portal, was gone. Dorian moaned.
“Oh, Dorian, I am so sorry.”
“It was made generations ago, by a woman who fled here after being accused of witchcraft. Hence, The Shoppe of Spells. This was the one place that understood that what she did was not evil. She actually wove tiny fragments of crystals and stones into the rug. There’s no other like it.”
After one more trip about the cottage, taking note of what was missing, Dorian held the door for her, then closed it behind him. The lock was broken, but he laid his hand above the latch, his hand shimmered, and she heard the door tighten.
“Nice trick,” she murmured.
“Too bad I didn’t think of it earlier. I don’t understand. I’ve never needed it before.”
“Let’s call the police.”
“No. We need to call Bask.”
He unlocked the shop door and walked inside, half expecting it, too, to be torn apart. Luckily, nothing had been touched. He went to his lab, opened the door, flicked on the lights, and looked around. His equipment was intact; his mortar and pestles were just as he’s left them. He closed the door, pulled out his phone, and hit speed-dial. The conversation was quick.
“Someone’s coming,” he said and put the backpack down. He ran his hand through his hair. It was a habit, Morgan realized, one he did when he was stressed. The black wave of hair slid across his brow.
Morgan didn’t know what to do. She knew he had been through so much, and now, to lose personal items of such meaning… She went in the kitchen and started the water for some tea, fed Meesha, whom, she figured, would be a better guard dog with food in her tummy, and unpacked the backpack.
“Who would do this? Why?” Morgan asked.
“I don’t know anyone stupid enough—” He stopped cold, reading the sticky notes he’d taken off the front door. He turned to her, fury in his expression.
“What?”
“We would have found them eventually,” he stated, his voice cold, “all we needed was a place to start. And I have that.” He slammed the papers into her hands.
Confused, Morgan read the sticky notes. One was from Ms. Alice.
Just wanted to let you know I ran into that handsome blond gentleman. He said he tried the back. I told him “this” was how we contacted you. Oh, we left you a pie at Teresa’s, if there’s any left. Miss A.
“Handsome blond gentleman?” Morgan read aloud.
“Oh, come on, Morgan,” he paced in front of her, “what blond gentlemen might one of those two old women meet either here or at Teresa’s?”
“Rob.” His name came out in a slow breath. “But, what would he be doing—”
“Stealing from the shop?” he asked, his anger palpable. “I don’t know, Morgan. You tell me.”
“Now wait a minute. I had no idea.” Realization struck. He was as much as accusing her of conspiring with Rob. She wasn’t going to take it. She spun and marched toward the kitchen, stopped and spun back around, hands on hips. “Just what do you think I did? I wasn’t the one who pulled someone out of bed this morning to go on a hike. I wasn’t the one who left it unprotected. I have no idea what Rob is up to. What would a professor want with a bunch of rocks and a rug?” She turned and went into the kitchen slamming mugs on the counter as she fixed tea—for both of them. This was stupid. He was upset. She would have to be the bigger person here. She carried the mugs over to the table. “Come,” she ordered. “Sit down. We’ll figure this out.”
Dorian sat down, took her hand and held tight when she tried to pull away.
“This is me saying I’m sorry.” He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. She felt the heat to her core.
She wiggled in her chair, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and gently took back her hand. “Let’s think this through. Why would he rob you?”
“Us,” he corrected.
“Us,” she amended. “I still don’t get it. What could Rob want with those stones?”
“What does he teach?”
“College physics.”
He looked at her. “Morgan, we have our own team of physicists at Abbott House.”
“Yes, but…” she hesitated, “I met him at the bookstore. He wanted to order…” she thought for a moment. A frown creased her forehead. She closed her eyes and said, “…some books on Indian Folklore.” Her shoulders slumped. She’d been used. But how?
She
hadn’t even known her connection to The Shoppe of Spells until recently. It couldn’t be.
“It could have been coincidental,” Dorian laid his hand over hers. “Some of the stories talk about an ‘emerald-eyed maiden.’ He may have just lucked out finding you and kept watch.”
“Well, that would explain his anger when I didn’t want to see him anymore.”
“And his appearance here, which led him to the stones, the rug…” his voice trailed off.
“Oh God, Dorian, I led him right to them.”
“You had no idea. We’ll get them back.”
“What does he want with them?”
Dorian got up. He seemed to be concentrating on something. He turned to her. “I would say, off hand, that he, being a physicist, has some inkling of the portals. Maybe he’s figured out something and is trying to recreate it.” He watched her frown. “Or, he’s a lousy scumbag who wants some precious gems.”
She looked up. “How precious?”
“Well, the rug itself has fragments of red beryl, amethyst, taaffeite, benitoite, and painite.”
“I’ve never heard of most of them.”
“That’s because they are all very rare. We still don’t know how the woman who wove them into the rug came by them, but not many know about the rug. Mostly, Abbott House.”
“So, it’s worth a fortune.”
“I don’t know. Never thought about it.” He pushed away from the counter and returned to the table. “Most people wouldn’t touch it. There’s a spell on it.”
“I thought you said—”
At the look on her face, he couldn’t resist—he walked over and kissed her hard. When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing a lot faster. “I said that we don’t do spells much anymore.” He grinned. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t done or can’t be done.”
“The stones are charged. They leave a marker. You and I, especially now,” he raised an eyebrow, “can detect the markers.”
“We can?” She realized she was leaning into him again and sat back.
“Unfortunately, we better be ready to grab the damn thing, cause it’s gonna glow.”
“Oh…” she trailed out the word, remembering the rug’s twinkle when she stood on it.
Her next comment was cut off by a knock at the front door. Dorian got up and walked into the next room. Morgan listened but didn’t recognize the voice. Dorian came in, followed by a woman. She wore a shirtwaist dress and flats, carried an oversized purse and could have been anyone’s grandmother. When she smiled, her whole face lit. She took Morgan’s hand, not waiting for introductions. “Hi. I’m Jane Barnes. I’m from Abbott House.”
Morgan stood, took her hand and exchanged a firm handgrip. A woman of substance, Morgan thought to herself. “Tea?”
“Sure, don’t mind if I do.”
Morgan listened as they talked. Not letting appearance belie capability, Morgan soon learned that Jane was one of Abbott House’s security administrators. In that oversized bag, she withdrew several folders, and out of one of the folders, several pictures of the rug. They’d been taken at various times over the years, the earliest being from the 1800’s. There were also some copies of detailed drawings of the rug, probably dating back many years prior to the photographs. Dorian stepped into his lab and returned with a list of all of the rocks and crystals in the cottage. It soon became apparent that nothing about that cottage was haphazard, no matter how quaint it looked.
He also filled Jane in on their speculations regarding Rob, all the while watching Morgan.