by Jane Tara
She obviously didn’t feel the same way, because the following morning she was gone. She’d kissed him and sent him into the shower, promising to join him in a few minutes. Fifteen minutes later Taran hopped out of the shower, expecting to find that she’d fallen back asleep. She wasn’t asleep. She wasn’t there.
Every atom of his being had wanted to go after her, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was shocked that he’d been so wrong about someone. He’d felt utterly bound to her and was certain she’d felt the same way. They’d spent night after night devouring each other mentally and physically. In his mind, it was a match made in heaven. He was stunned that he’d been so wrong. But more than that, his pride had taken a fall. Its first ever. He’d never been dumped. He’d wished for it countless times, but had always been left to do the dirty work. However, this time, the one time he really wanted a woman to hang around, she’d tossed him aside like yesterday’s news. So instead of charging ahead like he normally did, Taran retreated to lick his wounds. He and his ego had crawled into a little ball and stayed there for months. There had been other women, of course, but none who got under his skin like Calypso. None who came close. So now he was doing what he should have done twelve months earlier: he was tracking Calypso down to demand an explanation.
Which made him sound rather macho really. But if the truth were told, he’d been spurred into action by two separate events.
First came the offer from the Gate Gallery. His initial reaction had been sheer joy. He’d worked hard for years and this was the ultimate affirmation that he’d come into his own as an artist. But then he remembered Calypso and felt a plummeting fear. He’d be in the same city as her so there’d be no excuse not to initiate contact. If he wanted, which he did.
He kept telling himself that she wasn’t the only ex he had in London. Oh no, there were quite a few English women who completely despised him, one who still stalked him, even a couple who still genuinely wanted him. Laura Williamsworth immediately came to mind, mainly because he’d dated her three months previously. He’d escaped her clutches by the skin of his teeth when her extremely wealthy grandfather fell ill and she returned to London to be with him. Or more to the point, returned to London to make sure she was remembered in his will. Taran pretended to be disappointed, bade her a mournful farewell, and promptly went out to celebrate her departure. Finding female company was never a problem, but if it was, he could always look Laura up. If hell froze over and pigs flew backward and women started ignoring him.
This trip wasn’t about women. He wanted to concentrate on his work in London. Yet the idea of seeing Calypso began to nag him day and night. He couldn’t believe he was being such an idiot over it all. How hard was it to call her up and ask her out for a drink? He’d never had a problem initiating contact with a woman before. But she did dump him, rather brutally as well, so she might not even want to see him. Taran decided his trip to London would not include Calypso.
But then his twin brother provided the second event, the deal-breaker. Now his relationship with his twin was at stake, Taran had no choice but to swallow hs pride and track Calypso down. Taran couldn’t think about Finn’s ultimatum right now. It hurt, and Finn had never hurt Taran before. It had always been the other way round. He’d hurt Finn many times over the years, and that shamed him deeply.
The cab driver broke his reverie. “Here we are. You have a good night, son.”
Taran paid the driver. “Thanks. I intend to.”
He closed the taxi door and then hesitated as he noticed the Winds of Change. Damn it! They were whipping around the edge of the street. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the Winds of Change, and they usually weren’t for him, but even so, they always unnerved him slightly. He sidestepped them and made for the safety of the pub’s entrance. The King and Mistress was exactly as he’d imagined it, with wood paneled walls and floors, stained-glass windows, and cozy booths. A number of doors lead off the main bar. Calypso had mentioned the smaller bars, the rooms, and the steep stairs that led to her parents’ quarters on the third floor, and her own rooms in the attic. The fireplace in the corner had burnt down to its last embers, but the pub was warm and a welcome respite from the unusually chilly May evening.
Taran scanned the room. It was busy, but not overly so. The crowd was an eclectic mix of suits, students, arty types and, he presumed, locals. Oliver Swain was playing on the sound system, and there was a fabulous aroma of spice and freshly baked bread. No doubt that was from the kitchen, where Calypso’s father reigned.
His gaze rested on the bar where three gorgeous redheads gathered. What a sight they were. The tiny one was obviously Nell. She was as pretty as a picture, and seemed quite happy to sit back and let the other two take center stage. Batty was exactly as Calypso described her. While Nell’s hair was neatly cropped, and Calypso’s fell in undulating waves, Batty’s was more a tangle of curls. She was laughing loudly as she regaled the others with a story. Some of the patrons turned and stared, but Bettina Shakespeare had obviously been born and bred on strange stares so didn’t seem to notice.
And finally Calypso. She was even more stunning than he remembered. Taran actually felt nervous, which was a first for him. He realized it was a mistake turning up like this, without warning. What the hell was he going to say to her? He should come back later – when his brain was working again.
He opened the door to leave, but the Winds of Change were waiting and whipped past him, pushing him back inside. They swooshed through the bar, sweeping the past clear from the corners where it clung. A chime pealed softly through the room, even though he couldn’t see one. A man he presumed was Alf jumped about trying to catch coasters as they flew off the bar. The fire roared to life without being prodded. And three pairs of emerald eyes turned toward him.
His own blue ones locked with Calypso’s and somehow he found the courage to speak.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a drink for an old friend?”
Chapter Four
Sip dill seed tea to soothe stomach upsets
Calypso thought she was in danger of fainting from shock – or perhaps desire. Instead she made her way over to Taran and gave him a warm hug.
“Taran! What a surprise. What are you doing here?”
“I’m in town, so thought I’d drop by.” Can I get any more inane? he thought. “So here I am …” Obviously, yes.
“Come and meet my family.” Calypso dragged him over to the bar and introductions were made, although they all knew exactly who he was.
“Would you like a drink, lad?”
“A beer would be great, sir.”
“Now, now … I’ve never been formally knighted,” Alf joked. “No need for formalities here.”
“That’s good to know, Alf,” Taran said.
“What brings you to London?” Batty asked
“I’ve been offered an exhibition at the Gate.”
Everyone was suitably impressed, except Calypso, who wanted to be sick. An exhibition meant this was no fleeting visit.
“What an honor,” Nell said.
“It’s not for another month, but I thought I’d come over early and finish painting. See if inspiration hits.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will.” Batty glanced at Calypso.
“That’s a long time to be away from home.” Alf thought there was something familiar about the boy. Then he realized who Taran reminded him of when he gave a non-committal shrug – it was the same one Calypso gave him regularly.
“I’m at home wherever I lay my hat. Or my paintbrush.”
Calypso could see her mother was assessing the man she’d dated the last time she was in New York. Her eyebrows were raised so high they almost hit the ceiling. Calypso was furious. Taran was the last person she wanted to introduce to her family. They’d all wondered why she’d cut her trip to New York so abruptly short. Batty had questioned her in a way that made the MI5 look like lightweights, but Calypso refused to divulge any details.
“It’s a man.
I can see it … it’s written all over your face,” Batty had said.
Now it was written all over her mother’s face. She was looking at Taran with unmasked delight. But then, Taran did pack a punch. He was an Adonis … or at the very least, a human incarnation of his namesake, Taranis the thunder god. The name suited him: his beauty was dark, almost menacing. His face was perfect: chiseled, masculine, and yet beautiful. He had jet-black hair, a haughty nose and intense blue eyes that teased, yet warned you to not get too close. He was tall and lean with a broad chest and endless shoulders. He carried himself like a man who was used to being watched and liked it that way. And he was used to it. He’d virtually grown up on his parents television show. Calypso could tell her mother had already recognised him.
Taran’s parents owned an occult-based empire in the US that included everything from a successful reality show to merchandise such as T-shirts, toys and lunchboxes. The Dee family were famous before the Kardashians were born. His mother and father were the Oprah and Dr Phil of witchcraft, and just as rich.
But Taran Dee was more than just another spoilt brat living off his parents’ wealth: he was a successful artist in his own right. This was no shallow man. Calypso loved his work. His paintings were deep and soulful and mythical. He had a romantic spirit that he exposed every time he lifted his brush. He was unique, and knew it.
Damn him for showing up unannounced. And double damn her mother’s goofy grin.
Batty smiled broadly, her green eyes crinkling at the edges. “We’re so glad to have you here, Taran. Where are you staying? We’ve got rooms upstairs.”
Calypso interrupted before her mother got too carried away. Next she’d be offering him her oldest daughter for the bargain price of three camels. “I’m sure Taran is quite happy wherever he is.”
“I’m staying with a friend in Primrose Hill.”
“How lovely,” Batty said, as though he’d just told her he does charity work for Sulawesi orphans. Then she turned to Calypso. “Why don’t you take Taran downstairs and show him your bar?”
Calypso wanted to wring her mother’s neck. She may as well have said, “How about taking Taran downstairs and bearing his children?” As much as her family loved and supported her, deep down they were still like everyone else: sure that falling in love was the answer to everything. Calypso shuddered. Not even a gorgeous hunk of manhood like Taran Dee would tempt her down that road. But she’d still take him downstairs. Anything to get him away from her family.
*
Calypso led Taran through a maze of rooms and corridors. There were two smaller bars off the main bar, both filled with comfy chairs and low tables. They made their way into a neat little waiting room and then a stylish dining room.
“My father’s domain,” she explained.
“Nice portrait,” said Taran, referring to a gilt-framed painting of a woman over a mantelpiece.
“Nell Gwynn, mistress to King Charles II,” Calypso explained. “Painted in 1670.”
Taran was impressed. “Where did you get it?”
“She sat for it upstairs.”
Calypso opened a heavy wood door and led him down some stone stairs. “My Cauldron,” she announced.
Taran looked around while Calypso lit a couple of lamps.
“It’s fantastic.”
Calypso watched as he wandered over to the bar and ran his hand across it. He crouched down and admired the base of the bar, which had stained-glass inlays and was a work of art itself. He took his time, and when he was done he stood and turned to her.
“So what do I get now I’m here?”
“Exactly what you need.” There was a pause, and then Calypso launched herself at him. Her arms were around him, her lips were pressed against him. He was stunned for a moment. He obviously hadn’t been expecting this – not right away at least – but then she felt a ferocious heat surge through him. One hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her even closer while the other grabbed a handful of her hair.
The connection was immediate and fierce. Neither wanted to take it slowly; there was no time for games. They wanted each other straight away.
Taran tossed his jacket off and yanked his sweater over his head. He ripped at her T-shirt, and ran his hands across her skin.
“I’ve been dreaming of your body for twelve months.”
Calypso was breathless. “Does this live up to your dreams?”
“No comparison. This is real.” He unclipped her bra and lowered his head to her nipple. She groaned and went weak, so he lifted her onto a table. His hand undid the buttons on her jeans and slid them off before his fingers disappeared inside her. She went to scream but he silenced her with his mouth.
Good move, thought Calypso. She didn’t need her parents rushing in here right now.
She clawed at his belt buckle until she was able to find what she was looking for. It was straining to be set free, and when it was, it was just as magnificent as she remembered. And rock hard.
“Condom,” she gasped. “In that tin on the bar.”
That threw him. He looked stunned, but opened the tin and removed a condom, taking his time to unwrap it.
Calypso almost enjoyed his reaction, but knew that enjoyment was nothing compared to what was coming. She pulled him close again. “You okay?”
“I don’t have anything against condoms, but usually mine are tucked away in my wallet, not in a tin on a public bar.”
“They’re for my customers, you silly idiot. Occasionally one of my brews makes them a bit amorous, so I always have them on hand. Just trying to be responsible.” She ran her tongue across his lips. “This is a first, okay? Dipping into my own supply.”
He locked eyes with her and they laughed. The tension eased slightly, their breath mingled. She savored the moment, realizing she’d never wanted a man more than she wanted him right now.
He grabbed the back of her head with one hand while the other slid her hips closer to the edge of the table.
“You are so fucking sexy,” he growled.
And then he entered her and her whole body filled with electric shocks and small rapturous explosions of light.
The bliss! Sex had never been this good with anyone before. It’s why he was so bloody dangerous. So annoying. So frustrating … so … so incredible.
The rhythm got more heated, more urgent. Their kisses, their tongues, their moans echoed off the stone tiles.
He yanked her hair back and forced her to look him in the eye. “You just took off without saying goodbye.”
He continued to plunge, deeper and deeper. “I don’t do goodbyes,” she gasped.
“No, but you do fantastic hellos!”
They stared at each other, and then a year of feverish, unfulfilled yearning tore out of them in one wild moment. Her head fell back and her toes curled. She began to leave her body. His eyes glazed over and she could feel he was close to losing it, too. It was enough to send her soaring over the edge. He came with her in one long, loud, unbelievable explosion. And then they slumped together on top of the table.
“Christ,” he gasped. “That was amazing.”
Calypso couldn’t speak for a moment. She was completely overcome. She just lay there, naked on the table, trying to catch her breath. Trying not to sob. An unfamiliar calm descended, mixed with a bitter acceptance that this man was trouble. She opened her eyes and noticed their shadows were still dancing across the ceiling, thrilled to be reunited. Calypso didn’t share their elation. She felt confused – guilty, although she knew she shouldn’t.
“Ah, Cal, we’ve got a visitor,” Taran whispered.
Calypso followed his gaze and noticed Enid, one of the resident ghosts, hovering in the corner. Enid stared at them in fury, as her long white nightgown floated around her.
“Who is she?”
“Enid. Jumped off the pub roof in 1944.”
“I’m keeping an eye on you two,” Enid hissed, before disappearing.
Taran and Calypso looked at each other in
amazement, and then began to laugh.
Chapter Five
Dandelion wine is excellent for treating gout
Morning light peeked through the curtains. Taran opened his eyes and was able to take in his surroundings for the first time. Last night, when Calypso dragged him upstairs to her room, he was more interested in taking in every inch of her, again and again and again.
The room had whitewashed walls, beams, and a wood floor covered with a Moroccan rug. It was large and divided into two distinct areas. Scattered on one side were a few couches covered in pillows and throws and surrounded by packed bookshelves. The other side was the ornate bed he was now sprawled across, a dresser, a chair and a small Balinese desk where her laptop sat. There was a series of black and white photos tastefully framed on the wall: people dancing at Rio’s carnival; Calypso in a Japanese alleyway; African children; a busker somewhere in Europe. He felt ridiculously smug when he noticed a sketch he’d given her framed on the far wall. They’d spent a weekend at Martha’s Vineyard and he’d drawn her while she slept. It was a simple sketch but it captured her beauty and strength. Then he saw her suitcase propped near her closet. She hadn’t even bothered to unpack it – clothes spilled out the top. In fact, clothes were everywhere except inside the closet: T-shirts were tossed over the chair; a few pairs of jeans lay on the floor. There was even a bra hanging off the top of Calypso’s laptop. She could never be accused of obsessive neatness. Piled next to the computer were papers and photos and, on top of them all, as if ready to go, her passport. He tried to ignore how much that bothered him, but it was a glaring reminder of how difficult Calypso was to pin down.
