by JoAnn Ross
It was all Brigid's doing, Tara told herself. That's all it could be. That's all she would allow it to be.
Gavin's cabin was compact. And cluttered. Papers appeared to cover every flat surface, including the maple dining room table, suggesting he sketched while he ate. Filing cabinets and bookshelves lined the knotty-pine walls. On a shelf beside the door, she noticed a blue bottle filled with soil and sealed with wax.
"Is that from my grandmother?"
Gavin followed her gaze. "Brigid gave it to me when I first moved in. She promised it would protect my home. Unfortunately, she didn't have any charmed dirt that would also keep it neat."
"Make yourself at home," he invited, gathering up a pile of newspapers from a plaid sofa that had seen better days. "I'll make some coffee. Unless you'd rather have tea. I think I have some herbal tea bags that Brigid gave me."
"Coffee's fine."
He left the room. A moment later Tara heard the sounds of drawers opening and water running.
She wove her way through the clutter, past the weight machine and the slanted drafting table toward the couch, stepping over the piles of papers that were arranged in a way that led her to suspect that he might actually have a system of sorts. Needless to say, it was a far cry from her own tidy files and ledgers.
She paused at a bookshelf filled with texts about witchcraft. Some she knew were well written, carefully researched, accurate portrayals of the craft. Others were nothing more than myth and false legends, penned by charlatans who were only interested in making a quick buck. Which was, she reminded herself, exactly what Gavin was guilty of doing.
"Interesting library you've collected," she said when he returned.
"Brigid was a bit more blunt the first time she visited. She returned the next day with armloads of books she insisted I read."
"And did you?"
"Of course. And although I realize it will burst your little bubble of disapproval, I actually took some of the writings to heart."
She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. "How generous of you."
Her scathing tone only made him laugh. "You're a hard nut to crack, Tara. For someone who's turned her back on her heredity."
"How did you know about that?"
"I told you, Brigid was a friend of mine. We shared a lot. I told her about my life growing up in Dallas, and she told me all about her family."
He handed her an earthenware mug and sat down beside her, so close their thighs were touching. Since she did not want him to know how unnerving she found the feel of his leg against hers, she refrained from scooting over.
Tara took a sip of the coffee. It was dark and rich and had a faint taste of vanilla. "This is very good."
"You don't have to sound so surprised. Despite the admittedly less than domestic atmosphere around here, I know my way around a kitchen."
"I imagine I could count on one hand the number of men I know who could say that."
"It's no big deal. I learned out of self-defense when I figured out that even a kid couldn't live on mayo sandwiches alone."
"Your parents didn't cook?"
"My mother had to work three jobs to keep the wolf away from the door," he revealed. "My father was away most of the time."
"Was he a traveling salesman?"
So, he thought, the Whiskey River gossip mill didn't know his whole life history, just the past few years. "Actually, he was a thief."
"A thief?" She stared at him. "You're making that up." He didn't immediately answer. But there was no need. She could read the truth in his mind, as clearly as it had been printed in the headline of the Dallas Times Herald. "He robbed banks," she murmured, as much to herself as to Gavin.
Shock radiated through him like waves of energy after an earthquake. "How the hell did you know that?" He knew she hadn't been in contact with her grandmother for two years. And the only other two people, besides Brigid, who knew about his rocky past were Trace and Mariah.
"I'm afraid I read your mind," she said apologetically. "I truly am sorry. I was brought up not to pry into people's thoughts, and I never have before, but this time it just happened."
He gave her a long, hard look. Then reminded himself that Brigid herself had displayed unnerving psychic tendencies. Not that such abilities had made her a witch, Gavin reminded himself.
"Perhaps the fact that so much of Brigid's energy is still lingering in her house has intensified your emotions, so you don't have as much self-control."
"You felt it, too?"
"It would have been hard not to."
She considered his admission and realized that, although he himself didn't know it, Gavin was more of a believer than he thought. "Tell me about him."
"Who?"
"Your father."
Gavin shrugged. "There's not that much to tell. Some men go to banks to work—Pop's chosen career was to rob them. Kinda like Jesse James. But unlike old Jesse, he wasn't very good at it, so he tended to get caught. The fourth time, the judge tossed him into prison and threw away the key."
"So he's still in prison?"
"He died. In a prison riot when I was a teenager. He wasn't one of the instigators. Actually, as strange as it may sound, Pops was a pretty passive, easygoing guy. His death was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"I'm sorry."
He glanced down at her hand on his arm. He'd wanted her to touch him. But not in pity. "It wasn't that big a deal. I hardly knew him. I was born during his second incarceration. He was only home about a year and a half when I was six. Then, when I was fifteen, he lasted three months on parole before he screwed up again."
Gavin didn't add that having been an unwilling guest at the juvenile detention center himself at the time, he'd missed that occasion. It was there he'd met Trace, who was doing his own stint behind bars for being foolish—or unlucky—enough to be driving the car when the kids he was with had decided not to pay for the beer they'd picked up at a convenience store.
Although she knew he didn't want her sympathy, Tara couldn't keep her emotions from showing in her eyes as she looked into his face, for the first time seeing a depth she'd purposefully overlooked earlier.
"That must have been difficult for you." She thought about her own life growing up on the farm, running free, exulting in the glory of nature. Then she remembered how badly she'd wanted to escape such a halcyon existence and live in the big city where no one knew who she was. Or more importantly, what she was.
"I think," Gavin said slowly, honestly, "it was harder on my mom, struggling so hard and being alone. She died shortly after she got the news about my dad getting shot in prison. I think she just gave up."
"What happened to you?"
Gavin frowned as he took a long drink of coffee. "As you can see, I survived nicely. And I didn't bring you here to talk about my childhood."
He put his cup down on the pine table in front of the couch, stood and walked over to a cluttered desk.
"Here are the two books I wrote after I met your grandmother," he said, placing them beside her. "Read them and let me know what you think. And since it drives me nuts watching anyone read my stuff, I'm going outside."
Which he did. A moment later, Tara heard the thud of an ax hitting wood.
Unbidden, looking like some ragged-edged old photo, a picture swirled before her eyes—an image of Gavin chopping wood behind the cabin.
The image came to life, allowing her to witness the way he raised the ax over his head and brought it down with a smooth male grace that suggested he was no novice at physical labor. She could hear the thud of the ax against the gnarled alligator bark, smell the pungent sweet scent of juniper berries, feel the Indian summer sun that was warming the scene and turning it a gleaming amber gold.
Wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it casually atop the pile of wood he'd already stacked. A moment later, the white T-shirt followed, revealing that same rock-hard dark chest that had haunt
ed her dreams. Entranced, she watched the rippling of those long muscles in his back, flexing and releasing, again and again, as he proceeded to split the logs into kindling.
Determined to fight the deep sensual pull the vision evoked, Tara turned her attention to the books Gavin had given her to read.
What the hell was she doing in there? Gavin wondered. Reading the words out loud one at a time? He couldn't remember ever being so nervous. Not even when he'd been called before that grim-faced Dallas juvenile judge. Or later, when he'd waited to find out if his parole officer was going to sign the scholarship papers for that fancy arts college that was a long way from the welding or air-conditioning school most of the county's juvenile delinquents were funneled into.
He hadn't even been this uptight waiting for his first Morganna story to sell. And he'd been behind bars at the time.
Although it shouldn't really matter what Tara Delaney thought, Gavin discovered that it did. A lot. Frustrated by this strange new insecurity, he renewed his attack on the wood.
After finishing her second reading of both books, Tara went outside to locate Gavin. Although the sky had clouded over, the day was still unseasonably warm. He had taken his shirt off and he looked just as she'd pictured him, tan flesh stretched over sinew and muscle, rippling as he continued to chop the wood. He was her vision come to life. Struggling to control her heartbeat, she walked toward him.
With his back turned to her, Gavin was unaware of her approach. When he continued to hack away at the wood as if he held some personal grudge against the logs, Tara cleared her throat. When that failed to gain his attention, she reached out and touched his shoulder.
"Excuse me."
Her light touch was like a brand, scorching his flesh and making him miss the stump on the downswing. He spun toward her.
"Don't you know any better than to sneak up on a man wielding an ax?"
"I'm sorry. But I certainly wasn't trying to sneak up on you."
He could smell her over his own sweat. Her scent was spicy and delicious. And so tempting it made his stomach tighten. He lifted the ax again and embedded it in the top of the stump, then shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "I apologize for yelling at you. My mind was wandering."
"I imagine chopping wood is conducive to thinking through plots."
He liked the fact that she understood. "That's usually the case. But I wasn't thinking about Morganna this time."
Warning signals flashed. Tara chose to heed them and ignored his remark. "You put my grandmother in your novel."
She hadn't called it a comic book, Gavin noted. Things were beginning to look up. "The wise woman of Misty Mountain," he agreed with a nod. "Morganna's spiritual adviser."
"Who reminds Morganna about the Rule of Three when she wants to embark on a crusade of blood and fire against the undead spirits of the moon who have infiltrated the bodies of humans."
"'Ever mind the Rule of Three,'" Gavin quoted. "'Three times what thou givest, returns to thee.'" The admonition stressed that any witch who chose to use her powers for evil would ultimately find that evil turning back on her.
"Yet, even after learning the Rule of Three, Morganna doesn't abandon her plans for revenge."
Gavin shrugged. "She's like all of us, witch or human. She has a dark side and a light side, life is little more than striving for balance between the two."
This also was exactly what her grandmother had taught her. "Did you learn that from Brigid?"
"No." His wry smile seemed to be directed inward. "That lesson comes from personal experience."
There were things he wasn't telling her. Tara wondered how much of that experience—including his time in prison—was responsible for his having created such an angry, vengeful character.
"I like Brianna," she said.
"Ah." He smiled. "Morganna's twin sister. The virgin witch."
Tara arched a tawny brow. "I don't believe I recall reading that she was a virgin."
"It's implied. Her mind, heart and soul are so unrelentingly pure, it's obvious she'd never succumb to something as primal and dangerous as lust. Speaking of which…"
Tara tried to move away, but when her back ran into the trunk of a spreading oak tree, he put both hands on either side of her head, palms against tree, effectively holding her captive. The air around them had become strangely still and the light was that peculiar yellow hue that suggested an impending change in the weather.
"Gavin…"
"I like the way you say my name. With that little hitch in your voice." His voice was rough. His dark eyes, looking at her with such unmasked desire, were more potent that a hundred words of seduction. "Say it again."
There was a storm brewing. She could feel it. In the air. Inside her. One thing Tara had never been able to resist was a storm. "Gavin…"
"Lord, that's sweet." He leaned closer. Even if he'd wanted to, he could not have prevented his gaze from lingering on her mouth. "I think I was wrong."
"About what?" she managed through lips that had gone impossibly dry. She was trembling. Aching. Waiting.
"About there being no such thing as witchcraft." His lips were a few scant inches from hers, his warm breath stirring smoldering embers. "Because believe me, darlin'—" confident she would not bolt, he ran the back of his fingers down the side of her face "—you definitely have me bewitched."
His mouth brushed against hers, then retreated. "Bothered." Again his lips touched hers. "Bewildered."
The hand that had been creating sparks on her cheek streaked upward and fisted in her hair. The boiling pewter clouds overhead had darkened to deep purple. "I've wanted you since you first collapsed at my feet during that thunderstorm. You've haunted my dreams. And now, dammit, you're haunting me when I'm awake."
His eyes were hot and frustrated. Hers were wary and serious.
"Although I haven't wanted to, I've been thinking of you, too," Tara admitted breathlessly. "Too much. Which, I suppose, makes us even."
"No." Anger flashed, like sheet lightning threatening on the horizon. "Not hardly. Not yet."
8
The storm broke, hot and heavy. Gavin's mouth took hers with none of the sophisticated seduction Tara was accustomed to from the men she dated, men who inhabited her world of white shirts, dark ties and business journals. He did not draw her slowly into the mist, but dragged her instantly into the raging, speeding winds and black sky of the hurricane.
Tara didn't feel the rough tree bark against her back, only the unforgiving strength of his hard male body against hers. She heard the low rumble of thunder and had no idea whether it was coming from the sky or from inside her.
She felt the rushing and swirling of the four winds, stronger than any called up by any mythic sorcerer. Although it was not yet noon, she had the feeling of racing through the night. She kissed him back, hotly, hungrily, without inhibitions, without restraint.
Together they were caught up in the tempest, lightning flashed as his mouth burned over hers, his teeth nipping at her parted lips, his tongue diving deep.
Using only his wicked, wonderful mouth, he shattered her delicate defenses like a gale force wind shatters glass. Tara had kept her emotions rigorously under control for years. Now recklessness, too long restrained, broke free. She heard a moan as his lips skimmed down her neck and realized the low, desperate sound had escaped her own ravaged lips.
Take me, it said. Here. Now.
Gavin thrust his hands beneath her sweater, and through the thin barrier of silk covering her breasts he felt her warm flesh. He could feel the wild beat of her heart pounding beneath his hand, he could taste it throbbing in her throat.
Images swirled in his mind, visions of Tara standing in the streaming silvery glow of moonshine, wearing nothing but that evocative scent of night-blooming flowers, the light of desire shining in her star-bright eyes.
That was followed by another provocative image of the two of them, rolling naked in the wildflower-strewn meadow behind her grandmother's house, li
ps fused, limbs entwined, sun-warmed flesh gleaming in the clear mountain light.
Fired by the sensual mental pictures, Gavin returned his mouth to hers to plunder and savage. His hands tightened on her breasts, causing a muffled cry to escape her ravaged lips. The sound managed to make its way through the thunderous roaring in his head, capturing his unwilling attention.
It cost Gavin dearly to draw back, but somehow he did. The first thing he noticed as he struggled for breath was that Tara was no longer trembling. But he was.
She was an enchantress. Circe. Lorelie. Morgan Le Fay. She was Brigit, Celtic goddess of fire. She was all the goddesses of all the myths rolled up into one delectable, irresistible package.
She was also the most dangerous female he'd ever met.
And for a man who'd ended up in prison for bedding the wrong woman, that was definitely saying something.
The memories of that wild, out-of-control time were not the least bit pleasant. He shoved them back where they belonged, into the dark corner of his brain that was filled with lessons learned the hard way.
"Although I usually like to finish what I begin," he said in a voice roughened with lingering need, "I promised to get you back home in time for your meeting with that Realtor."
The momentary blank look on her face told him that she'd forgotten all about that. Which meant that she'd been every bit as shaken by that kiss as he. When those wide, slightly unfocused eyes stirred something inside him that was much more than sexual need. Gavin reminded himself that while she might not be as treacherous and self-serving as Pamela Carrington had been, this gorgeous, sweet-smelling female was still trouble. With a capital T.
As if some demented part of him was determined to touch his hand to the flames yet again, he heard himself saying, "Have dinner with me. We'll pick up where we left off."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Give me one reason why not." Gavin could easily name a dozen right off the top of his head. Including the vow he'd taken to never again allow any woman to become important enough to hurt him. But at the moment, with her taste still on his lips and her scent filling his mind, none of them seemed to matter.
