by Nora Roberts
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve got plenty of time to waste. I’ll get your coat.”
“And I don’t need you to drive me home.”
“We can arm-wrestle over that,” he called back. “But I’m not letting you walk home in the dark, in subzero temperatures.”
“You can’t drive me home. You didn’t dig out your car.”
“So I’ll dig it out, then drive you home. Five minutes.”
She’d have argued with that, but the front door slammed and she was left stewing in the house alone.
Curious, she eased open the back door, stood shivering while she watched him attack the snow around the Rover with a shovel. She had to admit those muscles she’d seen that morning in the gym weren’t just for show. It appeared that Dr. Booke knew how to put his back into the job at hand.
Still, he wasn’t particularly thorough. She nearly called out to say so when it occurred to her that any comment she made would prove she’d been interested enough to watch him. Instead she shut the door and rubbed the warmth back into her hands and arms.
When the front door slammed again, and she heard him stomping his feet, she was leaning against the kitchen counter, looking bored.
“Bitching cold out there,” he called back. “Where did I put your stuff?”
“In the bedroom.” And since she had a minute, she scurried around the table to flip through his notes. Hissed when she saw they were in shorthand, or what she assumed was shorthand. In any case, the notes were odd symbols, lines and loops that meant nothing to her. But the sketch in the center of a page had her gaping.
It was her face. And a damn good likeness, too. A quick pencil sketch, full face. She looked . . . annoyed, she decided. And watchful. Well, he was right about that, too.
There was no doubt in her mind that MacAllister Booke bore watching.
She was standing a foot away from the table, her hands innocently in her pockets, when he came back. “Took me a few minutes longer because I couldn’t find my keys. I still can’t figure out what they were doing in the bathroom sink.”
“Poltergeist?” she said sweetly and made him laugh.
“I wish. I just never seem to put anything in the same place twice.” He’d tracked snow through the house. Rather than point it out, Ripley slipped on her vest and scarf.
He held her coat, made her shake her head when she realized he intended to help her on with it.
“I can never figure that out. How do you guys figure we get our coats on when you’re not around?”
“We have no idea.” Amused, he set her cap on her head, then pulled her hair through the back as he’d seen her wear it. “Gloves?”
She pulled them out of her pocket. “Are you going to put them on for me, too, Daddy?”
“Sure, honey.” But when he reached out, she slapped his hand away. And was grinning until she saw the welts on his wrist. Guilt churned in her. She didn’t mind hurting someone, when they deserved it.
But not that way. Never that way.
Still, what was done could be undone, even if it did mean swallowing pride.
He saw a change in her expression as she stared at his wrist. “It’s no big deal,” he began and started to pull his cuffs down.
“It is to me.” She didn’t bother to sigh, but took his wrist again. Her gaze shot up, held his. “This is off my time, off the record. Off everything. Understood?”
“All right.”
“What in anger I have harmed, I regret and spin this charm. Heal this hurt caused by me by the power of one times three. As I will, so mote it be.”
He felt the mild pain, the heat lift away from his skin. The flesh where her fingers lay was now cool, as if they’d drawn the burns out. There was a jump in his belly, not so much from the physical change as from the change in her eyes.
He had looked into power before, and knew he looked into it now. It was something he never forgot to respect.
“Thanks,” he told her.
“Don’t mention it.” She turned away. “I mean that.”
When she reached for the doorknob on the kitchen door, his hand, its wrist unmarked, closed over it first. “We don’t know how you open doors either,” he said. “They’re so heavy and complicated.”
“Funny guy.” When they stepped out, his hand slid under to cup her elbow. The long, baleful look she sent him only brought on a shrug.
“It’s a little icy. I can’t help it. It’s very difficult to resist early childhood training.”
She let it go, and didn’t have the heart to jab at him when he walked her around the Rover and opened the passenger door for her.
It wasn’t much of a drive, but as she directed him she realized she was, indeed, grateful for the lift. Even in the hour she’d been inside, the temperature had dropped. The heater wouldn’t have time to kick in, but at least they were out of the open air—air that seemed cold enough to break.
“If you’re looking for more firewood, Jack Stubens sells it by the cord,” she told him.
“Stubens. Can you write that down?” Steering one-handed, he dug in his pocket. “Got any paper?”
“No.”
“Try the glove compartment.”
She opened it, and felt her jaw drop in shock. There were dozens of notes, countless pens, rubber bands, a half-empty bag of pretzels, three flashlights, a hunting knife, and several unidentified objects. She pulled one out that looked to be made up of red twine, various beads, and human hair.
“What’s this?”
He glanced over. “Gris-gris. It was a gift. No paper?”
She stared at him another moment, then put the charm back and pulled out one of the many scribbled notes. “Stubens,” she repeated, scrawling it on the scrap of paper. “Jack, over on Owl Haunt Lane.”
“Thanks.” He took the paper, stuffed it in his pocket.
“Turn here. It’s the two-story, wraparound porch.”
As the police cruiser was in the drive, he could’ve figured it out for himself. Lights were glowing cheerfully in the windows, and smoke puffed out of the chimney.
“Nice house.” He got out, and though she’d already hopped down before he could come around and open her door, he took her arm again.
“Look, Mac, it’s kind of cute and all that, but you don’t need to walk me to the door. This wasn’t a date.”
“It’s a compulsion. Besides, we had a meal, and conversation. And wine. So that’s several date elements.”
She stopped on the porch, turned. He’d pulled a ski cap on, and his dark blond hair escaped here and there. He couldn’t help but look at her intensely. “So, what, you want a kiss good night now?”
“Okay.”
The response was so cheerful, so harmlessly cheerful, she grinned. But only for an instant.
He had. . . moves. Smooth, unexpected, incredible moves.
It wasn’t fast, but it was so slick, so silky, she had no time to readjust. To think.
His arms came around her,slid her against him, body to body so that without any real pressure she was molded to him. He dipped her back, just the slightest bit, and somehow conjured the illusion that they were horizontal instead of vertical.
The intimacy of it jolted through her, sent her head on a dizzy spin even before his mouth took hers.
Soft. Warm. Deep. His lips didn’t brush or nibble, but simply absorbed. Now the dizziness was joined by a shimmering wave of heat that seemed to start in her toes and rise until it melted every bone.
A little sound—stunned pleasure—hummed in her throat. Her lips parted in welcome. Oh, more! It took two tries to lift her boneless arms and circle his neck.
Her knees buckled. It wouldn’t have surprised her to feel her body simply dissolve and slide in little liquid drops into a pool at his feet.
When he eased back, gently set her away, her vision was blurred, her mind blank.
“We’ll have to do this again sometime,” he said.
“Uh.” She couldn’t quite remember how to
form words.
He gave her hair a friendly tug. “Better get inside before you freeze.”
“Ah.” She gave up, turned blindly and walked into the door.
“Let me get that for you.” He spoke quietly, quite soberly, and turned the knob, nudged the door open. “Good night, Ripley.”
“Mmm.”
She stepped inside, then had no choice but to lean back against the door he closed until she got her bearings and her breath back.
Harmless? Had she actually thought he was harmless?
She managed to stagger a few steps, then lowered herself to the bottom tread of the staircase. She would just wait until her legs were back under her, she decided, before she tried to make it upstairs to her room.
* * *
January 8, 2002
9–10P .M.EST
I’ll transcribe my notes and the tape from my initial interview with Ripley Todd shortly. I didn’t make as much progress with her as I’d hoped. However, there were two specific incidents that will be set down in more detail in my official log. My personal reaction, however, belongs here.
Ripley’s temperament and her protective attitude toward her sister-in-law, Nell Todd (data on Nell Todd cross-referenced under her name), can and will overpower her reluctance to discuss her gift. Or, as I learned tonight, to demonstrate that gift. It’s my impression that her warning to me when I mentioned Nell was instinctive, and the result was unplanned. Harming me was a by-product rather than a goal. The burns on my wrist, from visual examination, matched the grip and shape of her fingers. It wasn’t a flash burn, but more a steady increase in heat. As you might experience when turning up a flame.
Her physical changes during this phenomenon were a dilation of pupils, a flush under the skin.
Her anger turned inward immediately.
I believe this lack of control, and a fear of what she is capable of, are what cause her reluctance to discuss, and explore, the nature of her talents.
She’s an interesting woman, one obviously close toher family. In all areas but this, I sense and observe a complete confidence, an ease of self.
She’s beautiful when she smiles.
He stopped, nearly crossed out his last observation. It wasn’t even accurate. She wasn’t beautiful—attractive, intriguing, but not beautiful.
Still, he reminded himself, the journal was for impressions. The thought that she was beautiful must have been in his mind for him to note it down. So it stayed.
The second incident occurred just before we left, and was, I have no doubt, more difficult for her. The fact that she would remove the burns, deliberately demonstrate her ability, indicates a strong sense of right and wrong. That, as with her instinct to protect who and what she loves, overcomes her need to block off her gift.
I hope, as time goes on, to discover what event or events influenced her to deny or abjure her powers.
I need to see her again, to verify my suppositions.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered. If he couldn’t be honest here, where?
I want to see her again, on a completely personal level. I’ve enjoyed being with her, even when she’s rude and insulting. It worries me, a bit, that I might enjoy being with her because she’s rude and insulting. Beyond that, there’s a strong sexual attraction. Unlike the sheer admiration for beauty I felt on firstmeeting Mia Devlin—and the completely natural and human fantasy that resulted—this is more basic, and therefore, more compelling. I want, on one level, to carefully take this complex woman apart, piece by piece, and understand what she is. On the other, I just want to . . .
Nope, Mac decided, even a personal journal needed some censoring. He couldn’t write down just what he wanted to do with Ripley Todd.
I find myself wondering what it would be like to be her lover.
There, he thought, that was acceptable. No point in going into graphic detail.
I drove her home tonight, as the temperatures are hovering at zero Fahrenheit. The fact that she had walked here, and would have walked home under such conditions, demonstrates her stubbornness as well as her independence. She was, very obviously, amused at simple courtesies such as helping her with her coat, holding the door. Not insulted, but amused, which I found disarming.
I wouldn’t have kissed her if she hadn’t brought it up. I certainly had no intention of doing so at this early stage of our relationship. Her response was unexpected and. . . arousing. She’s a strong woman, body and mind, and to feel her going almost limp . . .
He had to stop, take a breath, guzzle some of the water he’d poured.
To feel the reaction of her body to mine, and the heat . . . Knowing the chemical and biological causes for the increase of body heat during such an event doesn’t diminish the wonder of the experience. I can still taste her—strong again, a strong and sharp flavor. And hear the kind of purr she made down in her throat. My legs went weak, and when her arms came around my neck, it was like being surrounded by her. Another minute—another instant, and I would have forgotten that we were standing on an open porch on a bitterly cold night.
But since I had—despite her teasing—initiated the embrace, it was my responsibility. At least I had the satisfaction of seeing her face, and the dazed, dreamy expression in her eyes. And of watching her walk straight into the door.
That was a good one.
Of course, I nearly ran off the road twice coming back to the cottage—and got lost, but that part isn’t atypical without the stimuli.
Yes, I want to see her again, on a number of levels. And I don’t expect to sleep particularly well tonight.
Five
Nell iced thelast batch of cinnamon buns and bided her time. She had an hour before she needed to load up her car with the café stock. Today’s soup was porcini mushroom, and it was already sealed in the kettle. The three salad selections were prepared, the muffins baked. She’d finished the napoleons.
She’d been up and at it since five-thirty.
Diego, her sleek gray cat, was curled on one of the kitchen chairs, watching her. Lucy, the big black Lab, sprawled in a corner, watching Diego. They had come to terms—Diego’s terms—and lived together in an acceptable state of distrust and suspicion.
While her cookies baked, Nell kept the radio on low and waited.
When Ripley entered, bleary-eyed, wearing the sweatpants and football jersey she’d slept in, Nell simply held out a mug of coffee.
Ripley grunted, as close to a thank-you as she could manage before caffeine, and plopped into a chair.
“Too much snow for your morning run.”
Ripley grunted again. She never felt completely herself without her three miles. But the coffee was helping. She sipped, idly patted Lucy’s head when the Lab came over to greet her.
She’d have to use the damn treadmill. Hated that. But she couldn’t go two days without a run. Zack was taking the first shift—where the hell was Zack?—so she could wait until midmorning before popping into the gym.
She didn’t want to run into Mac.
Not that he worried her or anything. She’d already reasoned out a number of very plausible excuses for her reaction to that good-night kiss.
She just didn’t want to deal with him, that was all there was to it.
Nell set a bowl in front of her. Ripley blinked at it. “What?”
“Oatmeal.”
Suspicious and far from enthusiastic, Ripley leaned over and sniffed. “What’s in it?”
“Nutrition.” Nell took a batch of cookies from the oven, slid in another tray. “Try it before you make icky faces.”
“Okay, okay.” She had been making icky faces behind Nell’s back. It was sort of lowering to be caught at it. She sampled, pursed her lips, took another spoonful. There didn’t seem to be anything Nell put together that didn’t go down well. “It’s good. My mother used to cook oatmeal in the winter, but it looked like gray glue. Tasted worse.”
“Your mother has other talents.” Nell poured herself a cup of coffee. She’d all but
shoved Zack out of the house early so she could grab this time with Ripley. She didn’t intend to waste it. She sat. “So, how did it go?”
“What?”
“Your evening with Mac Booke.”
“It wasn’t an evening. It was an hour.”
Defensive, Nell thought. Cranky. Well, well. “How did your hour go?”
“It came and it went, which wraps up my obligation.”
“I was glad he drove you home.” At Ripley’s lifted brows, Nell blinked her baby blues innocently. “I heard the car.”
And had looked out the window. Had seen Mac walk Ripley to the door. There’d been quite the little time lag before he’d walked back to the car.
“Yeah, he was all ‘It’s too cold out. You’ll get frostbite and die before you get home.’ ” She shoved oatmeal into her mouth, then wagged her spoon. “Like I don’t know how to take care of myself. Guys like that burn me. He can’t even find his keys half the time, but I’m going to wander off and turn into a Popsicle. Please.”
“I’m glad he drove you home,” Nell repeated.
“Yeah, well.” Ripley sighed, toyed with her oatmeal by putting little crescent-shaped dents on it with the tip of her spoon. She decided it looked sort of like a moonscape.
If he hadn’t driven her home, she’d have been fine, but she’d have missed one whale of a kiss. Not that she was obsessing about it or anything.
“You wouldn’t recognize the cottage,” she went on. “It looks like the den of some mad scientist. All this electronic and computer junk shoved in there. No place to sit down except the kitchen. The guy’s totally wrapped up in his spook show. He’s even got some voodoo charm in his glove compartment. He knows about me,” she finished in a rush, and lifted her gaze to Nell’s.
“Oh.” Nell drew in a quiet breath. “Did you tell him?”
Ripley shook her head. Her insides jittered, infuriating her. “He just knew. Like I had a sign on my forehead, saying ‘Local Witch.’ It’s all real academic with him. ‘Well, this is interesting, Deputy Todd, perhaps you could conjure something for me for the recorder.’ ”
“Did he ask you to do magic?”
“No.” Ripley rubbed her hands over her face. “No,” she said again. “But I . . . Damn it, he pissed me off, and I . . . I burned him.”
“Oh, my God.” Coffee sloshed at the rim as Nell set her cup down.
“I didn’t set him on fire or anything. I burned his wrist with my fingers.” She stared down at them now. Harmless, ordinary, maybe a little on the long side, with short, unpainted nails.
Nothing special.
Lethal.
“I didn’t think about it, not consciously. All the mad went to heat and the heat went to my fingers. I haven’t needed to think about it, to worry about it, in so long. The last few months . . .”
