by JoAnn Ross
Tara reminded herself that Gavin was a dangerous man. He wasn't the kind of man a woman feared, but the kind a woman would desire. And that, she warned herself, could lead her straight into treacherous waters.
"How about because I don't know what you want from me?"
"Of course you do." His eyes darkened as they roamed over her face, taking in the confusion and reluctant desire in her eyes, the high color in her cheeks. "I want you, Tara. In all the ways a man can want a woman. I have from the beginning. I want to make love to you, to take you places you've never been, to take us both to places we've only dreamed of."
"Well." She let out a long breath. "That's certainly specific."
"I've never been much on game playing." Which was, he'd realized later, exactly why Pamela had chosen him as a pawn in her deadly little game in the first place.
All too aware of how Gavin had maneuvered her into this situation, Tara was tempted to argue that point, but was afraid she'd get sidetracked. "All right, so now I know what you want. But it's not that simple."
"Of course it is." He brushed his thumb over her lips, rewarded when they parted ever so slightly.
She backed away again. "The thing is, Gavin, I don't know what I want."
"Maybe not now," he allowed. "But we both know exactly what you wanted when I kissed you. When you kissed me back."
"Your point." She dragged a shaky hand through her hair. "But that was then. And this is now. And despite my grandmother's penchant for serendipity, I've never been a spontaneous person. Sex is distracting. I need time to think."
"Terrific. You'll have all the time you need. Before I pick you up at seven for dinner."
He was doing it again! Steamrollering over her wishes, ignoring her protests. Tara decided that what-ever happened between the two of them in the next twenty-seven days, it was important that she set down some ground rules.
"All right. Since I get the feeling you're not going to give up, I'll have dinner with you." She watched the spark of masculine satisfaction in his eyes and knew she was right not to make this easy. "Tomorrow night."
It definitely wasn't his first choice. He suspected if he pushed he could win her over, but that wasn't what he wanted. When she came to him—and Gavin possessed not a single doubt that she would—he wanted her to be in his bed of her own free will.
Giving her time to think about that hot kiss, letting her anticipate their lovemaking, was probably not a bad idea.
"You've got yourself a date," he said.
As they walked back toward the house, Gavin considered that Tara was definitely turning out to be a challenge. Brigid's granddaughter smelled like heaven, tasted like honey warmed by a benevolent sun and intrigued him like no other mortal woman ever had.
In fact, now that he thought about it, the only other female he'd ever met who had the ability to fascinate him on so many different levels was Morganna, Mistress of the Night.
Oh, yes, Gavin thought, the next few weeks were going to be very interesting.
Neither spoke on the way back to Brigid's house. But the silence was surprisingly companionable. Gavin liked a woman who didn't feel the need to fill in those inevitable silences with conversation.
He pulled up in front of the house at the same time a car arrived from the opposite direction. A metallic sign on the front door advertised Rim Rock Realty.
"Thank you for the enlightening morning," Tara said.
"It was my pleasure. Wait a minute," he said as she reached for the door handle, prepared to make her escape. "I forgot something."
She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "What now?"
"This." He caught her uplifted chin between his thumb and index finger and touched his mouth to hers.
The chemistry between them was the same as it had been the other times they'd shared a kiss: instant heat, instant need. His mouth, as it devoured hers, was hard and greedy. Tara's blood heated, her skin tingled. Underlying the unbelievably powerful kiss was a faint threat of violence that knocked the breath out of her and made her chest ache.
Forgetting all about the woman who'd gotten out of the car and was walking toward them, forgetting everything but this powerful, painful need ripping through her, Tara opened to him, mouth, mind and heart.
As her body pressed anxiously against his, as he somehow heard her soft little moans over the roaring in his head, Gavin had a vision of dragging her into the back of the Tahoe, stripping her clothes off her, then pounding into her, deep and hard in a mindless melding of flesh, dragging her into the heat and flames until she screamed. And then he'd take her up all over again. And again.
It was her breathy voice, gasping his name that brought him back to reality. Cursing, he took his hand from beneath her sweater and forced himself to relinquish the glory of that lush feminine mouth.
"You're going to kill me yet, sweetheart."
His forehead was pressed against hers, his breath was harsh and labored. Tara could hardly breathe herself.
"This is insane," she managed.
He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes, which were dark and cautious. "You're probably right," he surprised her by agreeing. "But it's still something we're going to have to deal with."
She sighed. "Yes."
She looked so small, so vulnerable, that Gavin found his heart going out to her. Dammit, he didn't want to care for her, didn't want to care about her. Understanding that this uncharacteristic feeling of tenderness was even more dangerous than the hunger that had been tormenting him for days, he decided that it was past time to back away.
"We've got company."
She glanced out the windshield and saw the middle-aged woman standing on the sidewalk, studiously looking toward the house, trying to pretend she hadn't witnessed what was going on inside the truck.
"I'll bet she can't wait to get back to town with this little story." Tara groaned. "What am I going to say?"
Her plaintive tone made Gavin chuckle. "Tell her the truth."
"That I almost had sex in the back seat of a truck like some hormone-driven teenager?"
"No." Feeling unreasonably good for a man who only minutes before had been perched on the rocky edge of a precipice, Gavin skimmed a finger down the slope of her nose. "Tell her you were casting a spell on me."
Tara couldn't help it. She smiled.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow night at seven. Oh, and dress casually. This is Whiskey River, not trendy San Francisco. Jeans will be fine."
Ten minutes later, as she gave the Realtor a tour of the inside of the house, Tara passed by a gilt-framed mirror and realized she was still smiling.
The midnight sky was a vast sea of black velvet scattered with diamonds. Ice crystals sparkled in the frosty night air as Brianna made her way through the forest, following a siren's call older than time. She was the other side of her twin sister Morganna, the quiet witch, the temperate, logical one.
Born to be unrelentingly generous and losing, she'd certainly never invite down the dark forces to slay her enemies. Nor would she respond to such primitive forces as fury, or lust. Her sole purpose in life was to create order out of a world that seemed to grow more chaotic with each passing day. It was not in her nature to behave rashly.
Yet, she was out in the wintery night, planning to meet the mortal man she'd not been able to get out of her mind.
He was waiting for her, standing all alone in the circle of sacred oak. He was clad all in black—dark to her light, male to her female.
Without saying a word, he pushed her white fur hood back and gathered a fistful of her red-gold hair in his hand while his free hand deftly unfastened the diamond button of the cape and pushed it off her shoulders.
She stood before him, totally naked, save for the ancient silver-and-jet amulet around her throat. He pulled her toward him for a long minute and kissed her passionately, before lowering her onto her cape.
He knelt beside her. "You are so lovely." He drank deeply from her parted lips. Somewhere in the top
s of the trees an owl hooted, a sad and lonely sound that made them even more glad to have each other. It began to snow, soft white flakes that drifted down like feathers shaken from some giant god's goose-down pillow, but steeped in the magic of the night, of each other, Brianna and her mortal lover didn't feel the cold as the flakes covered them like a pristine white quilt.
"Damn." Gavin swore as he threw down the pen, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Brianna had always been the boring, passive sister. Until tonight, when somehow she'd taken on Tara's personality and had him envisioning hot, carnal scenes that his editors would never, in a million years, allow.
His body ached, and Gavin didn't need to look down to know that it was reacting to the erotic mind pictures. What the hell was happening to him? If he didn't know better, he thought with grim amusement, he'd think that Tara Delaney—or that crafty old Brigid— really had cast a spell on him.
He dragged a hand down his face, then studied the frames he'd drawn. If it was a spell, he supposed he shouldn't complain. After all, in the entire scheme of things, a perpetual hard-on wasn't such a bad price to pay for some of the best work of his career.
The following morning, after yet another restless night filled with creaking floors, scratching tree branches and erotic dreams, Tara was in the Whiskey River mercantile, pushing her cart through aisles filled with ripe orange pumpkins and displays of candy, costumes and candles set up for Halloween.
In ancient times, Celts had prepared feasts for the departed souls who'd be walking among them during this holy time of ending and beginning. Some of her happiest childhood memories revolved around this joyous time of parties and bonfires.
Tara took a bag of miniature chocolate bars from a display and put them into her cart. She doubted that any local youngsters would dare trick-or-treat at the witch's haunted house. But if they did, she intended to be prepared.
When she felt someone staring at her, she slowly turned around. There, standing beside a pyramid of pumpkins, was an elderly man whose rotund body, pink cheeks and snowy beard were reminiscent of Santa Claus. She thought he seemed vaguely familiar, then realized he'd been one of the customers at the diner the other morning.
"I'm sorry," he said when he realized he'd attracted her attention. "I didn't mean to stare." He closed the distance between them, allowing her to catch a whiff of cherry pipe tobacco. "It's just that when I saw you, I had this sudden feeling of deja vu. It was as if fifty years of my life had just whirled away."
His blue eyes were twinkling at her in a way that encouraged Tara to smile back. "You knew my grandmother, Brigid Delaney," she guessed.
"I was in love with her for half a century."
"Really?" Tara gave him a longer, more critical glance. She wondered why, if he and her grandmother had been as close, Brigid had never mentioned him. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know your name."
"Forgive me for not introducing myself. I'm Reginald McVey. And you are, of course, the lovely Tara. Your grandmother spoke of you often. She was very proud of all your accomplishments."
"So I keep hearing." Realizing that her tone was sharper than it need be, she forced another smile and tried again. "Have you lived in Whiskey River all those years, Mr. McVey?"
"Off and on. I'm afraid I'm a bit of a travelin' man. Caught the wanderlust at an early age and couldn't shake it. I think that's one of the reasons Brigid refused to marry me. She was happy here in Whiskey River."
"She was that. Were you visiting her when she died?"
He frowned and his bright blue eyes shadowed. "Unfortunately, I've been in the Himalayas—Tibet, Nepal, India—for the past nine months. I only arrived in town last week to bring Brigid a present—a Tibetan singing bowl. I was devastated to learn of her tragic accident."
"It was tragic," Tara agreed with a sigh. "And certainly unexpected." She shook off the sadness that always came when she thought of her grandmother falling down those stairs. Had she lain on the landing, broken and frightened? Or had she died instantly? She had forgotten to ask the sheriff, but it didn't really make any difference. Not now.
"I'm staying at the Silver Spur," Reginald McVey volunteered, pulling Tara out of her depressing thoughts. "I assume you've come to claim your inheritance?"
"You know about that?"
"Your grandmother may not have been willing to marry me, but she did confide in me. She told me five years ago that she was planning to leave the house and all its contents to you."
"With a caveat," Tara muttered.
"I don't understand."
"I'd planned to sell the house. Still do, as a matter of fact. But first I have to live in it for a month."
"One cycle of the moon." He threw back his snowy head and laughed, a deep booming belly laugh that made her think that he could probably make a fortune hiring himself out at Christmas parties. "If that isn't just like the crafty old witch, finding a way to force you to face your other inheritance."
Knowing he was referring to her genetic inheritance, Tara didn't answer. Although it was obvious that he was indeed a close friend of her grandmother's, she definitely wasn't in the mood to discuss her aversion to witchcraft.
"Well, I'd love to visit longer, but I'm afraid my ice cream's beginning to melt," she said.
"I'm sorry." The color in his ruddy cheeks deepened further. "I'm going to be leaving town soon—I have a cruise scheduled to the Greek Isles—but if you don't mind, I'd very much appreciate the opportunity to drop by the house and give you the bowl. I've carried it a very long way and would like to know that at least Brigid's granddaughter was enjoying it."
Terrific. That's all she needed. One more knick-knack to deal with. Not wanting to disappoint him, Tara smiled. "I'd like that," she agreed.
After inviting him to drop by anytime, she continued shopping and was standing in the bread aisle, trying to decide between the wheat bagels and honey cinnamon ones, when a young woman approached.
"I hate to disturb you," she said hesitantly, "but are you Brigid Delaney's granddaughter?"
"I'm Tara Delaney." Tara felt every muscle in her body tense as she waited for the inevitable request. She did not have to wait long.
"I'm Vicki Harper. And I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about your grandmother passing away. It must have come as a terrible shock, as vital as Brigid seemed to be."
"Thank you. Yes, it was unexpected." Tara began to relax. Too soon, she discovered.
"Are you here in Whiskey River to pick up her practice?"
"No." Tara's tone was firm. Final.
"Oh, that's too bad. I realize now that we probably overworked the poor dear something awful, but we all cared for her so much. And she provided so much comfort. You should hear the changes she made in Iris Johnson's life."
"I heard."
"And there were so many others. Too many to count. I don't know what we're all going to do without her." She sighed and gave Tara a long, disappointed look that spoke volumes.
"I don't do magic," Tara said as the silence settled over them. "Or cast spells. But if you need someone to talk to about a personal problem—"
"Oh, would you?" Hope shone in the woman's eyes. And even as she felt herself being pulled into a situation she'd spent her entire life avoiding, Tara had a sixth sense that her grandmother was smiling her approval.
"I'd be so appreciative. Brigid was such a good listener."
"Yes, she was."
"You know, although I truly believed in her powers, there were times I thought that a lot of her success in turning lives around was due to her ability to listen. And helping people find their own solutions to their problems."
That was much the same thing Iris had said when she'd told Tara about the self-affirming words Brigid had instructed her to repeat each morning.
"I think you may be right." Tara recalled all too vividly how well her grandmother had listened to her after the Richard debacle. She looked into her grocery cart and pictured the Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream continuing
to melt while Vicki Harper related her life story. "Why don't I finish up my shopping," she suggested, "and I'll meet you at my house in about an hour."
"That'd be wonderful. Thank you." Obviously overflowing with renewed hope, Vicki reached out and hugged Tara. Then hurried away, as if afraid her newfound benefactor would change her mind.
Tara watched her go, fearing that by agreeing to talk with Vicki Harper, she might be opening a door that she'd vowed to leave closed. But although she might have turned her back on magic, she didn't have it in her to turn away a person in trouble. Even if that person's needs conflicted with her own.
"If I didn't know any better, Grandy," she muttered as she tossed the honey cinnamon bagels into the cart, "I'd suspect this was just another example of your interference."
Tara realized she'd spoken out loud when a passing man gave her a sideways glance, then hurried on. Instead of being embarrassed, Tara merely laughed. Eccentric behavior was undoubtedly considered de rigueur for witches in Whiskey River.
9
Vicki Harper had obviously never heard the axiom that brevity was the soul of wit. Over countless cups of orange spiced tea, she related the tale of her teenage romance with the town's so-called bad boy, who'd eventually grown up, settled down and become, of all things, a minister.
Vicki had graduated from cosmetology school, married the Reverend Jimmy Harper and had taken a part-time job doing hair at the Shear Pleasures beauty salon.
She stressed that her husband was a loving, caring man. Their marriage was perfect. Their life was perfect.
"It sounds as if you're a very lucky woman," Tara said, refilling their cups for the umpteenth time.
"I am. Which is why I feel so guilty about complaining. I keep thinking that God will punish me for wanting more when I already have so much."
"I'm sure it doesn't work that way," Tara said gently.
"That's what Jimmy says." Vicki sighed and dumped another spoon of sugar into her already sweetened tea. "But how does anyone know, really?"
