by Nora Roberts
With a laugh, she drew him inside. “Welcome to my home. Let me take your coat.”
She stood close, let her fingertips graze his arm. She considered it a kind of test, for both of them. “I’m tempted to say come into my parlor.” Her laugh came again, low and rich. “So I will.” She gestured to a room off the wide foyer. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll open the wine.”
Slightly dazed, he walked into a large room where a fire burned brightly. The room was full of rich color, soft fabrics, gleaming wood and glass. Old, beautifully faded rugs were spread over a wide-planked floor.
He recognized wealth—comfortable, tasteful, and somehow female wealth.
There were flowers, lilies with star-shaped petals as white as the snow outside, in a tall, clear vase.
The air smelled of them, and of her.
Even a dead man, Mac imagined, would have felt his blood warming, his juices flowing.
There were books tucked on shelves among pretty bottles and chunks of crystals and intriguing little statues. He gave those his attention. What a person read gave insight into the person.
“I’m a practical woman.”
He jumped. She’d come in silently, like smoke.
“Excuse me?”
“Practical,” she repeated, setting down the tray that held the wine and two glasses. “Books are a passion, and I opened the store so I could make a profit from my passion.”
“Your passion’s eclectic.”
“Single channels are so monotonous.” She poured the wine, crossed to him, her eyes never leaving his. “You’d agree, since your interests are varied as well.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“To a variety of passions, then.” Her eyes laughed as she touched her glass to his.
She sat on the low sofa, smiling still as she patted the cushion beside her. “Come, sit. Tell me what you think of our little island in the sea.”
He wondered if the room was overwarm or if she simply radiated heat wherever she went. But he sat. “I like it. The village is just quaint enough without being trite, and the people friendly enough without being obviously nosy. Your bookstore adds a touch of sophistication, and the sea adds glamour, the forests mystery. I’m comfortable here.”
“Handy. And you’re comfortable in my little cottage?”
“More than. I’ve gotten considerable work done already.”
“You’re a practical soul, too, aren’t you, MacAllister?” She sipped, red wine against red lips. “Despite what many would consider the impracticality of your chosen field.”
It felt as though the collar of his shirt had shrunk. “Knowledge is always practical.”
“And that’s what you seek under it all. The knowing.” She curled up, and her knees brushed his leg, lightly. “A seeking mind is very attractive.”
“Yeah. Well.” He drank wine. Gulped it.
“How’s your . . . appetite?”
His color rose. “My appetite?”
He was, she decided, absolutely delightful. “Why don’t we move into the dining room? I’ll feed you.”
“Great. Good.”
She uncurled, trailed fingertips down his arm again. “Bring the wine, handsome.”
Oh, boy, was his only clear thought.
The dining roomshould have felt formal, intimidating with its huge mahogany table, the wide sideboards and high-backed chairs. But it was as welcoming as her parlor. The colors were warm here, too, deep burgundy shades mixed with dark golds.
Flowers in the same hues scented this air as well and speared out of cut crystal. A fire crackled, like an accompaniment to the quiet music of harps and pipes.
The trio of windows along the wall was left uncovered to bring the contrast of black night and white snow into the room. Perfect as a photograph.
There was a succulent rack of lamb and the light of a dozen candles.
If she’d been intending to dress a stage for romance, she had succeeded, expertly.
As they ate she steered the conversation into literature, art, theater, all the while watching him with flattering attention.
It was almost, he thought, hypnotic. The way she looked at a man, fully, directly, deeply.
Candlelight played over her skin like gold on alabaster, in her eyes like gilt over smoke. He wished he could do better than rough pencil sketches. Hers was a face that demanded oil and canvas.
It surprised him that they had so much common ground. Books enjoyed, music appreciated.
Then again, each of them had spent considerable time learning of the other’s background. He knew she’d grown up here, in this house, an only child. And that her parents had given most of her day-to-day care into Lulu’s hands. She’d gone to college at Radcliffe and had earned degrees in literature and business.
Her parents had left the island before she’d graduated, and rarely returned.
She came from money, as did he.
She belonged to no coven, no group, no organization, and lived quietly and alone in the place of her birth. She had never married, nor had she ever lived with a man.
He wondered that a woman so obviously, so elegantly sexual, had not done so.
“You enjoy traveling,” she said.
“There’s a lot out there to see. I guess I enjoyed it more in my twenties. The kick of packing up, taking off, whenever I wanted, or needed to.”
“And living in New York. The excitement, the stimulation.”
“It has its advantages. But my work can be done anywhere. Do you get to New York often?”
“No. I rarely leave the island. I have all I need and want here.”
“Museums, theater, galleries?”
“I don’t have much of a thirst for them. I prefer my cliffs, my forest, my work. And my garden,” she added. “It’s a pity it’s winter, or we could take a stroll through my garden. Instead we’ll have to settle for coffee and dessert in the parlor.”
She treated him to delicate profiteroles, which he enjoyed. Offered him brandy, which he declined. A clock from somewhere deep in the house bonged the hour as she once again curled herself on the sofa beside him.
“You’re a man of great personal restraint and willpower, aren’t you, Dr. Booke?”
“I’m not sure that’s ever come up. Why?”
“Because you’ve been in my home, alone with me, for more than two hours. I’ve plied you with wine, candlelight, music. And yet you haven’t brought up your professional interest in me, nor have you tried to seduce me. Is that admirable, I wonder, or should I be insulted?”
“I thought about both those things.”
“Really? And what did you think?”
“That you invited me into your home, so to bring up my professional interest was inappropriate.”
“Ah.” She tilted her head, deliberately giving him the opening to lean in, take her mouth. “And the seduction?”
“If there’s a man who’s been within a half a mile of you and hasn’t imagined seducing you, he needs therapy immediately.”
“Oh, I do like you. More than I’d counted on, actually. Now, I’ll apologize for baiting you.”
“Why? I liked it.”
“Mac.” She leaned over, touched her lips lightly to his. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?”
“I hope so.”
“I might have enjoyed being more, but it would have been brief, and it would have complicated destinies.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Both, and more. We’re not meant to be lovers. I didn’t know you’d already realized that.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I regret it a little.”
“I’d be annoyed if you didn’t.” She tossed back her curling flood of dark-red hair. “Ask the professional question that’s most on your mind. I’ll answer if I can.”
“The circle in the woods by the cottage. How did you cast it?”
Surprise had her pursing her lips. She rose to give herself a moment to think. “That’s a good one,” she said, wander
ing to the window. “How did you find it?” Before he could answer, she waved a hand. “No, never mind. It’s your job. I can’t answer a question that involves others who may not wish it.”
“I know about Ripley, and Nell.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you?”
“From research, process of elimination, observation.” He shrugged his shoulders. “From being good at what I do. I haven’t approached Nell because both you and Ripley objected.”
“I see. Are you afraid what we’d do if you ignored our objections?”
“No.”
“No. Just that simple and quick. A courageous man.”
“Not at all. You wouldn’t use your gift to punish or harm—not without cause or provocation—and then only to protect. Ripley doesn’t have your control or dedication, but she has her own code, possibly more strict than yours.”
“You read people well. And you’ve approached Ripley? You’ve spoken to her?”
“Yes, I have.”
The corners of her mouth bowed up, but there was little humor in the smile. “And you say you’re not courageous.”
There was enough bite to the words to intrigue. “What happened between the two of you?”
“That’s a second question, and I’ve yet to decide if I’ll answer the first. Until Ripley confirms your supposition—”
“It’s not a supposition, it’s fact. And she has confirmed it.”
“Now you surprise me.” Puzzling it out, Mia paced to the fireplace, from there to the coffeepot to pour, though she had no desire for coffee.
“You’d protect her, too,” Mac said quietly. “She matters to you, a great deal.”
“We were friends, as close as friends can be, for most of our lives. Now we’re not.” She said it simply, though it was anything but simple. “But I haven’t forgotten what we were, or what we shared. Even so, Ripley can protect herself. I can’t think why she’d have admitted to you, so quickly, what she has. What she is.”
“I boxed her in.”
He hesitated only a moment, then told Mia of the energy burst, the woman on the beach, the hour he’d spent with Ripley in the cottage.
Mia took his wrist, examined it herself. “Her temper was always a problem. But her conscience is even stronger. She’ll suffer for having harmed you. She’d have transferred the burns, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“That would have been her way to do penance, to make it right and just again. Taking the burns from your flesh onto her own.”
He thought of the heat, the pain. Swore. “Damn it, that wasn’t necessary.”
“For her, it was. Let it go.” She released his wrist, wandered about the room, and settled her mind. “You want her, sexually.”
He shifted on the sofa. The blush wanted to creep up his neck. “I’m not entirely comfortable getting into that subject with another woman.”
“Men are so often squeamish about sex. Discussing it, not having it. That’s all right.” She came back, sat again. “Now to answer your question—”
“I’m sorry. Would you object if I recorded your answer?”
“Dr. Booke.” Amusement sang in her voice as he took the little tape recorder out of his pocket. “Such a Boy Scout. Always prepared. No, I don’t suppose I’d object, but we’ll just put it on record as well that this goes into no publication without my written permission.”
“You’re a Boy Scout yourself. Agreed.”
“Nell had taken precautions, and so had I. Legal action was about to begin as further protection. Zack, who is also good at his job and very much in love with Nell, was also protecting her. Yet Evan Remington came to the island, and he found her. He hurt her and terrorized her. He nearly killed Zack and would have killed Nell. Despite everything, he would have taken her life that night. She ran to the woods to keep him from killing Zack, who was already wounded. Ran there knowing he would follow her.”
“She’s a courageous woman.”
“Oh, indeed. She knew the woods, they’re hers, and it was the dark of the moon. Yet still he found her, as part of her knew he would. There are fates that nothing can turn—no magic, no intellect, no effort.” Her eyes were deep and intense as they met his now. “Do you believe that?”
“Yes, I do.”
She nodded as she studied his face. “I thought you would, and on some level, you even understand it. He was meant to find her. This . . . test that held her life in the balance was written centuries ago. Her courage, and faith in self, were key.”
She paused a moment, gathering herself. “Even knowing that, I was afraid. As a woman is afraid. He held a knife to her throat. Her face was already bruised from his hand. I abhor those who prey on others, who deliberately cause fear and pain in those they see as weaker.”
“You’re a civilized woman,” he said.
“Am I, Dr. Booke? Do you also understand that it was within my power to have caused Evan Remington’s heart to stop, to have stopped his life, given him unspeakable pain, in the instant he threatened my sister?”
“A curse of that magnitude, that violence, requires the belief of the one being cursed. And a complex ritual with . . .” He trailed off because Mia was sipping coffee and smiling—pure amusement now. “All my research confirms that.”
“As you like.” She said it lightly, and the back of his neck prickled. “What I could have done is one thing. I’m bound by my own beliefs, my own vows. I can’t break faith and be what I am. We stood, the five of us, in that wood. Both Zack and Ripley had weapons. But using them would certainly have ended Nell’s life as well as Remington’s. There was only one path, one answer. The circle of three. We cast it that night, without the ceremony, the tools, the chants that are most often required. We cast the circle through will.”
Fascinating, he thought. Amazing. “I’ve never seen that done.”
“Nor had I, until that night, ever attempted it. Needs must,” she murmured. “A link, mind to mind to mind. And power, Dr. Booke, ran in a ring like fire. He couldn’t harm her when she wouldnot be harmed. He couldn’t stay sane when forced to face what lived inside him.”
She spoke quietly, but something—the wordmagic seemed almost too ordinary—shimmered in the room, stroked over his skin. “Ripley told me you closed the circle.”
“Ripley is uncharacteristically chatty with you. Yes, we closed the circle.”
“The energy’s still there. Stronger than any open circle I’ve documented.”
“The three are very strong when linked. I suspect the energy will be there long after we’re just memories. Nell found what she needed. The first step toward the balance.”
The air cooled again, and she was just a beautiful woman holding a china pot. “More coffee?” she asked.
Seven
The slick-handed son of a bitch.
First he puts the moves on her, then he worms his way past her better judgment with that cute, trust-me act, then he makes it clear he wants to have sex.
Ripley ground her teeth as she jogged along the beach.
Then,then , at the first chance, he cozies up to Mia.
Men, she decided, were slugs.
She might not have gotten wind of it either if Nell hadn’t casually commented about Mia having Mac up to her house for dinner.
Dinner? she snorted. Right, dinner.
She just bet he had his mind on his stomach when he bought a bottle of Mia’s favorite fancy French wine at Island Liquors. She’d heard about that, too, after the fact. He’d evenasked the clerk which type—vintage—Mia preferred.
Well, he was free to put the make on Mia and on every female on the island. Butnot when he’d put it on Ripley Todd first.
Bastard. City-slicker bastard getting her all stirred up and twitchy, then sneaking off to nibble on Mia. Mia had probably cast out lures just to get her goat.
It would be just like her.
She swung around at the end of the beach, pounded in the opposite direction.
No, d
amn it, it wasn’t. However much she would have enjoyed jabbing her elbow in Mia’s face on principle, she couldn’t delude herself. Mia never went sniffing after someone else’s man. The fact was, she didn’t sniff after men at all, which was probably why she was such a moody, irritating woman. A little recreational sex would improve her attitude.
But it wasn’t Mia’s style, and however much at odds they were, Mia Devlin was entirely too loyal, and too damn classy, to poach.
Which brought Ripley back full circle to Mac.
His fault, completely and totally. All she had to do now was figure out the most satisfying way to make him pay for it.
She finished her run, showered, dressed for the day in dark wool slacks and a turtleneck, buttoning a flannel shirt over it. She laced up her boots. Then took a good long look at herself in the mirror.
She could never compete with Mia in the looks department. Who could? Then again, she’d never wanted to. She had her own style and was comfortable with it. Still, she knew just how to bump up the package when she was in the mood.
Toying with the outline of an idea for vengeance, she slicked on lipstick, smudged on eyeliner and shadow, brushed on mascara. Satisfied that she’d made the best use of what she had to work with, she sprayed on some of the perfume Nell had put in her Christmas stocking.
It was a deep, earthy scent and suited her more than anything floral or airy.
After some debate, she ditched the flannel shirt. She might be a bit chilly before end of day, but the turtleneck and slacks showed off her curves. Pleased with the results, she strapped her holster to her belt and headed out to work.
Pete Stahr’s mutthad gotten off the leash, again. He’d nosed out a goodly pile of frozen fish guts, feasted on same. Then had sicked them up, along with his morning ration of kibble, on Gladys Macey’s pristine front stoop.
It was the sort of neighborhood crisis Ripley preferred leaving to Zack. He was more diplomatic, more patient. But Zack was on the windward side helping to deal with a couple of downed trees. That left her stuck.
“Ripley, I’m at the end of my patience.”
“I don’t blame you for that, Mrs. Macey.” They stood, hunched against the cold, and several steps downwind from the mess on the front stoop.
“That dog—” She pointed to where the unrepentant hound sat tied to a tree trunk by a length of clothesline. “He’s got no more sense than a block of wood.”
“No arguing there, either.” Ripley watched the dopey-faced dog grin and loll his tongue. “But, you know, he’s affable.”
Gladys merely puffed her cheeks full of air, blew it out. “Why he’s taken such a shine to me I don’t know, but the fact is, every blessed time he gets loose he’s over here doing his business in my yard, burying some mangy bone in my flower beds, and now this.”
She set her hands on her hips and scowled at her stoop. “Just who’s going to
