by JoAnn Ross
Since she had fond memories of many of the books of Celtic myths her grandmother had read to her when she was a child, Tara decided to take them back to San Francisco with her, never mind the fact that her apartment was already overflowing with business and investment texts.
Those books dealing with druid ceremonies and beliefs she'd ship to her mother. The rest—novels embracing every genre of fiction from fantasy to horror to romance—she decided to donate to the Rim Country Rescue Unit, a volunteer group providing 911 emergency service to the remote mountain communities. She'd unearthed a letter on her grandmother's desk from the organization requesting donated items for a tag sale planned for Halloween weekend. The hand-written note in the margin revealed that Brigid had intended to contribute signed copies of her books.
Having woken up edgy, this trip down memory lane only made Tara more tense. Her mood wasn't helped by the knowledge that something was coming. She could sense it in every atom of her body.
"So long as it isn't someone," she muttered as she moved a Ouija board off a green marble-topped table to make room for a gloriously illustrated book of fairy tales that had so enthralled her as a child. Someone like Gavin Thomas. She glanced out the window, half expecting to see the cause of all her uncharacteristic anxiety striding up the front walk. When she didn't, she told herself that she was really beginning to lose her mind.
Frustrated, she returned to work with a renewed vengeance. The thing to do, she told herself, was to keep so busy that she didn't have time to think of Gavin. Or her life.
The task did not go swiftly. She kept running across personal belongings that stirred bittersweet memories. A lodestone on which a love rune had been scratched vibrated in her palm, reminding Tara that Brigid had professed to have been carrying this very stone in the pocket of her dress the night she'd met Jared Brown, the man who had become Tara's grandfather. Soothed by the fact that the stone still carried Brigid's life force within it, Tara slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.
A silver chalice, etched with ancient symbols, claimed the top of a lace-draped marble-topped table. Hanging on the wall behind the table was an ornate gold sword encrusted with semiprecious stones.
Candles of all sizes, shapes and colors adorned the top of the old upright piano where, as a little girl, Tara had practiced her scales and learned to play two-handed "Chopsticks." Scattered atop nearby tables were decks of tarot cards, clay potpourri pots and small, hand-painted wooden boxes. Inside a box adorned with decoupage pictures of the galaxies, Tara found a pair of earrings she remembered well. And a small piece of obsidian on a thin silver chain she'd never seen before.
Although the dangling silver crescent moons were far more flamboyant than the small pearl studs she usually wore to work, Tara slipped them on and felt an instant sense of connection with her grandmother that comforted and saddened her at the same time. She slipped the necklace over her head and tucked it beneath her sweater where it warmed her skin.
In a drawer of an antique rolltop desk, alleged to have once belonged to that master illusionist Houdini, she discovered a stack of letters requesting her grandmother's appearance as a featured speaker at various druid gatherings. Deciding that good manners required her to respond, she'd just put them aside to deal with later when, beneath the letters, she unearthed a book that captured her immediate attention.
The cover featured a drawing of an impossibly voluptuous, barely clad woman flying through a sea of twinkling stars seated astride a silver-handled broom. Only the fact that the book was hardcover and an outrageous price suggested that it was not a mere comic book.
Morganna, Mistress of the Night? She read the title out loud. "What on earth would Grandy be doing with something like this?"
The only possible explanation was that Brigid had been preparing an article attacking such a piece of slanderous trash. Instead of the typical ugly old crone of fairy tales, this witch was the other side of the coin, a side that was every bit as untruthful and unflattering—the evil temptress.
A cold fury flowed through Tara as she skimmed through the pages depicting the female witch conducting various so-called rituals. Most of the rituals, Tara noticed, involved Morganna shedding her clothes beneath a bloodred or, in some instances, a milk white moon. Although her free-flowing ebony hair managed—just barely—to cover her breasts and the shadowy juncture between her thighs, the luscious enchantress had a body any Playboy centerfold would envy.
The magic conducted within the sacred circle was stereotypical black sorcery involving bubbling cauldrons, black cats and bats. It also, Tara noted, was more often than not used as a tool of vengeance.
Shaking her head with disdain and disgust, Tara was about to throw the book into the trash when an inscription on the inside title page captured her attention.
The script was bold and dark, suggesting a very strong masculinity. The powerful vibrations emanating from it were palpable.
"To Brigid—with affection and admiration," Tara read. Her eyes narrowed at the next line. "Gavin Thomas?"
How dare he! What made him think he could attack everything her grandmother believed in with such impunity? And then to have the absolute gall to rub a dear, elderly woman's nose in such unmitigated filth was purely unconscionable!
Tara threw the book into the wastebasket. Then plucked it out again. She was intending to burn it to cinders in the fireplace when the doorbell chimed. Unfortunately, she knew instantly who'd come calling.
She stomped to the door and flung it open. "You have a lot of nerve!"
The first thought that flashed through Gavin's mind was that he hadn't imagined Tara Delaney's beauty. She was, in a word, stunning. She was also furious. Although he'd never experienced anything resembling a psychic moment in his life—he refused to consider the hot dreams he'd been having the past three nights to be any type of omen—he certainly didn't need second sight to envision the flames encircling her bright head. Flames that were a distinct contrast to the frost in her sharp gaze.
Fire and ice. Gavin had always been a man to appreciate contradictions.
"Good morning to you, too." There was both amusement and annoyance in his deep voice. "I was driving into town and thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."
Tara's icy gaze raked over him. "Go to hell."
She slammed the door, but with the deftness of an aluminum-siding salesman, Gavin slipped his foot between the door and the jamb, preventing her from shutting him out. "That's a bit longer trip than I had in mind."
"Tough." She pushed harder, frustrated when the thick oak door refused to budge.
"Can I take your lack of hospitality to mean that you're not a morning person?"
"If you don't leave right this minute, I'll call the sheriff and have him arrest you for trespassing."
"Don't you think that's overreacting just a bit?"
She made a low sound of fury. "After what you've done, you're lucky I don't turn you into a toad!"
Lord, the lady was passionate beneath that cool exterior! It made Gavin want to push a few more buttons just to see how fast and how hot she'd heat up.
"Good try. But you'll find I'm not as easily terrified as those kids the other night. Who, by the way, have arranged to make restitution for your window."
She was momentarily sidetracked. "How do you know that?"
"I played poker with the sheriff last night. He told me."
"It would have been nice if he'd told me."
"If you'd been down at the jail playing five card stud with us, I imagine he would have. I expect he'll be calling you later today."
"How considerate of him. I suppose I should be grateful that he's not going to make me wait and read the news in the Rim Rock Record."
"You know, Tara, sarcasm doesn't really suit you." When he reached out and lightly brushed those tantalizing wisps of bright hair at the back of her neck, she took a quick step back, realizing too late that she'd just allowed him entry into her house.
"Go away
."
"You know, if you're not careful, I'm going to think you don't like me."
"And you'd be right. Tell me one reason why I shouldn't boil in oil the horrid person who wrote this." She jammed the hateful book into his stomach.
"Ah." Ignoring the fact that she'd nearly knocked the wind out of him, Gavin began flipping through the pages, much as she had done. There was the faintest of smiles around his mouth. "I take it you're underwhelmed."
Tara backed farther away and crossed her arms over the front of her oversize emerald green sweater. "Since we first met, I've tried to figure out what it was that my grandmother liked about you," she said between clenched teeth. "But despite my best efforts, whatever charms you may possess continue to escape me."
"That's undoubtedly because you haven't taken the time to get to know me."
"You haven't exactly given me the opportunity." The words were no sooner out of her mouth when she realized she'd made a grave tactical error by revealing she'd been aware of his absence.
"If I'd known you missed me, I would have visited again a lot sooner." Staying away had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, harder than eighteen months in a Texas state penitentiary, Gavin thought with grim humor.
"I'd rather be visited by plague and pestilence."
Fire flashed in her remarkable eyes, glowed hotly in her cheeks. She was, Gavin thought again, a woman of amazing passions.
"Do you always smell so good?" he asked, suddenly changing the subject to what was uppermost in his mind at the moment. "And you have the most fascinating skin. It looks like cool, perfectly smooth porcelain, but it feels like silk that's been lying beneath a buttery summer sun."
"Dammit, Gavin—"
"It makes a man wonder," he continued, huskily overriding her faint protest, "if the rest of your body is as soft. As warm."
"Don't touch me." Determined to regain some control of the situation, she knocked his hand away when he began to toy with a dangling silver earring. "And don't talk to me that way."
"How would you like me to talk to you?"
"I'd like you to say goodbye."
"Not until you agree to come for a ride with me." Ignoring her instructions not to touch, he took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "There's something I want to show you."
"I've already seen your etchings, remember?" She tried to pull her hand free, but was forestalled when he tightened his grip. He wasn't hurting her, but the increased force succeeded in holding her captive. "There's no way I'm going anywhere with you."
"Surely you're not that afraid of me?"
"I'm not afraid at all," she said, not quite truthfully. While she was no longer worried he was a murderer, there was nothing comforting about the way he made her feel. "I told you, I just don't like you."
"Are you always tempted to go to bed with men you don't like?"
"You're a very lucky man," she said between clenched teeth. "Because I am managing, just barely, to keep from slapping you for that remark, clichéd though that response may be."
"It's the truth. And we both know it. You may not want me to want you. Hell, I don't want to want you. But I don't seem to have a lot of choice in the matter. And neither do you. So—" he shrugged "—the way I see it, we may as well relax and go with the flow."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," she repeated. "And I'm definitely not a believer in going with the flow."
"That's probably why you decided to become an accountant," he considered.
"My reasons for whatever I do, including my career choice, are none of your business. Besides," she said, belatedly remembering what had so angered her in the first place, "I've already planned to spend the day cleaning the clutter out of my grandmother's house."
She glared down at the book in his hand. "Beginning with that piece of trash. After having seen it, I'm forced to wonder just how much you had to do with her heart attack."
The blow was swift, sharp and direct. And surprisingly painful.
"Bull's-eye," he murmured. "You have very good aim, sweetheart. Nearly as good as Morganna's when she took on those muggers in Central Park."
Tara tossed up her chin. "You can't possibly be comparing me with your underdressed, oversexed cartoon character?"
"If the cat suit fits," he murmured. He treated her to another one of those slow, head-to-toe appraisals that gave her the impression he was imagining her in a clinging black body stocking. "And yes, although you might not be as voluptuous as my mistress of the night, I'd say there's a definite resemblance."
"You are not only obnoxious, you're crazy."
"That's pretty much the same thing Brigid said the first time she met my fictional witch," he allowed. "But she gradually began to appreciate certain aspects of Morganna's nature. Enough so that she was willing to provide a great deal of input in later editions."
"You're lying. My grandmother spent her entire life striving to overcome negative stereotypes like your ridiculous comic book and I refuse—"
"Graphic novel."
She waved off his correction with a furious gesture. "I refuse," she began again, "to believe she would have anything to do with you. Or your comic creation."
"Graphic novel," he repeated again.
"There's no difference."
"Of course there is." Although his tone remained mild, the glint in his midnight-dark eyes reminded her that, although he might not be a cold-blooded murderer, Gavin was nevertheless dangerous.
"Come for a drive with me and I'll prove your grandmother really was a friend. And a fan."
Impossible. There was absolutely nothing he could do to convince Tara that her grandmother had approved of such trash.
Still, no one had ever accused Brigid Delaney of being predictable. And some of the things Gavin had said about Brigid suggested, as impossible as it was to imagine, that they'd been close.
"I have a meeting with the Realtor who's going to list the house this afternoon at two."
"I'll get you back in plenty of time. Don't you think it's what Brigid would want you to do?"
That was definitely dirty pool. Especially since Tara secretly admitted he was right. She let out a long sigh of reluctant surrender. "This I have to hear."
As he walked beside her to his fire engine red Chevy Tahoe parked outside the house, Gavin managed, just barely, to restrain his triumphant smile.
7
Tara was not surprised when Gavin drove fast. Faster than the law allowed, faster than what would be, for most people, a prudent speed over the rough red cinders. However, as much as she hated to admit it, as he deftly swerved around a huge rock that was taking up the center of the road, in this case, his irritating self-confidence seemed warranted.
"I still can't believe you could know my grandmother and write that disgusting comic book," she said when he barely slowed down at a four-way stop on the deserted stretch of road.
"Graphic novel. And for the record, I hadn't met your grandmother when I came up with the idea for Morganna."
"But you're still writing comic—graphic novels," she quickly corrected herself, determined not to become sidetracked by technicalities. She wanted to argue the content of his work, not the name by which it was called.
"I'm like everyone else. I have to pay the rent."
"By causing emotional pain to others, including an elderly woman who befriended you? And what about giving young boys skewed stereotypes of women? Surely you can't be proud of that."
Gavin sighed. "Tara, my books are entertainment. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Entertainment for men." Like strip joints and massage parlors, she tacked on mentally.
"Granted, they're geared to a male audience. And sure, a lot of that audience is possibly under the age of consent, but believe me, teenagers today get a lot more sex, violence and skewed stereotypes on television. Have you watched those MTV videos?"
"So what you're saying is, that since such harmful, chauvinistic attitudes are so prevalent in society, you have absolutely no com
punction about ducking responsibility for creating outrageous sexual stereotypes for profit."
"Ouch." He flinched and shook his head. "I guess I'll just have to change your mind about Morganna."
"That won't happen."
"Never say never."
Gavin turned the truck onto something that seemed more rocky creek bed than proper road, and Tara hung on to the handle above the passenger door as the Tahoe bounced across the boulder-strewn road.
Still troubled by the thought of how painful her grandmother would have found Gavin's portrayal of witches, she said suddenly, "You didn't really believe Brigid was a witch, did you?"
After meeting Brigid Delaney, and listening to her calm explanation of the craft, Gavin had given a great deal of thought to the matter and had come to the conclusion that she was a nice, albeit slightly delusional old lady. She might even be on the right track with that herbal healing stuff. After all, hadn't a lot of today's modern Pharmaceuticals originally come from herbs and bark?
But a witch?
No way.
"No offense, sweetheart," he said as he pulled up in front of a small but cozy-looking log cabin, "but the entire idea is a bit of a stretch. Even for man with my vivid imagination and active fantasy life."
The look he gave her suggested exactly how vivid. And how active.
"I didn't come here to discuss your fantasy life."
"Too bad," he drawled as he pulled the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. "Because believe me, ever since you showed up at Brigid's house in the middle of that thunderstorm, they've definitely gotten interesting."
"In fact, there's this one really hot one, where I've built a fire in the forest and you appear, looking like every red-blooded male's midnight fantasy, in this long, clinging white satin nightgown, with lace so delicate it looks as if it could have been spun by magic spiders, and—"
"You don't have to tell me any more, Gavin. I get the drift."
"I rather thought you would," he said in a way that told her that, although it made no logical sense, he suspected she'd been experiencing the same sensual dream. Which she had, dammit.
