Mr. B must not have been monitoring the wavelengths, because he simply nodded. “I shall hope for July then. I do enjoy rubies.”
A box appeared on my plate.
“Whoa,” I said. A few people at the table caught their breath. Oh yeah. Some people don’t know about the magic. Well, folks, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
“For you, Ella. You held up your end of the bargain. Here is a gift for you.”
This wasn’t in the script.
Since everyone was watching me, including Quentin, I had to play along. My hands shook. The velvet, hinged box opened easily. On the creamy satin lay a beautiful sapphire solitaire necklace.
I picked it up, and received murmurs of admiration.
“Mr. Bergestein, I—”
He held up a hand and my tongue froze. “Of course I expected you to object. But it is simply a token of my deep gratification. No further obligations, no pressure.”
I let out a breath. No obligation? I was sweating like a horse on race day.
“Quentin, come help Ella with the necklace, please. I do believe her emotions have overcome her.”
He had that right.
Chapter Nineteen
Quentin did look quite debonair as he walked the length of the table. Maybe I should have been nicer to him last night.
The touch of his hands on the back of my neck triggered that familiar stirring. He, unlike Mr. B, was fully attuned to my thoughts. Fingers intentionally lingered at the base of my throat. Want switched gears and became need.
“Later,” he whispered and sealed the promise with a kiss.
I’ll bet I had the pregnancy glow with the resulting blush from his show of affection.
“Nice. Very nice. Thank you, Quentin.” Mr. B nodded and addressed the entire table, droning on about his plans to add on to the complex. To introduce a school so younger recruits could be trained on-site.
This piqued my interest. Recruits? Were we talking about cult-like activities here? Some bizarre religion?
“Shh.” Quentin saved me from the backlash of Mr. B’s raised eyebrow.
I tuned it out. I couldn’t object to what I didn’t hear, right? My fingers slid over the generous square-cut pendant. The heat from Quentin’s touch was still there, just waiting to spread. I cupped it in my hand, and felt it pulse.
No.
I immediately let the flighty thought of it being a real gem pass. A real sapphire, yes, but a real magic gem in disguise? I don’t think so.
Why? The idea still floated in the air. There were no reasons. More than likely it was a beacon, a combination wire and video that recorded my every move.
Sure. That made me feel better.
Finally we were able to eat. Being a pig was expected of me. I couldn’t let anyone down, right? Waffles topped with thick whipped cream and fresh melon balls were my favorite. Then I had to have a blueberry scone dripping with real butter, not the oily margarine stuff I used to buy because it was cheap.
I must have heard a hundred wishes of congratulations. I pretended they were offering those words because I’d won the lottery. I’m sure it made my smile more genuine.
Through it all, the mild pounding headache became intense. Pressure increased behind my eyes and sharp stabbing sensations poked at my ears. I was on the verge of begging for mercy. And my stomach was seriously thinking about rebelling.
I wondered if the test was right—or was that wrong? It seemed months ago. But I couldn’t concentrate to figure out the exact amount of time.
“Ella? You’ve gone pale. Is everything okay?”
“Uh, not really. My stomach isn’t feeling too great right now. Perhaps I should be excused.”
The woman next to me patted my cheek. “Morning sickness, dear. Have you had it long?”
I shrugged and shook my head. “Just a bit queasy now and then. Nothing like this.”
“Then late June should be about right. I started my morning sickness when I was six to seven weeks along.”
No way was I going to argue with her reasoning. I looked for Quentin, wondering if he’d overheard that prediction. He was gone. Mr. B must have noticed my search.
“Go on, back to the room, Ella. I’ll be along to look in on you.”
I nodded, stood and bowed. I didn’t run until I reached the hallway. I ignored the door and dove straight through the wall.
No doubt. I was sick.
A curse. Witchcraft and black magic. I cursed it all. I didn’t care if demons who rode fire breathing dragons flew up from the pits of hell because of it. Magic sucked.
Magic couldn’t take away the wrenching sobs and stomach muscles that protested as if they’d endured a couple hundred sit ups.
I met every knock at the door with a terse. “Go away.”
But hey, at least they’d had the decency to knock.
“Ella, you’ve got to come out. You’re not sick anymore. You can’t be. There can’t be anything left in your stomach.”
I couldn’t argue that. Quentin, the know-it-all. Hell, he’d probably perched invisibly on the edge of the tub while I’d dealt with convulsion after convulsion.
“I still feel queasy.” My doubts were now solid. This was not morning sickness. Panic, I think, had given flight to the idea. But after a sip of water had ricocheted upwards and through my nostrils with as much force as Niagara Falls, well, I figured this was just a nice case of the stomach flu. “And I don’t want to come out. I want a shower. And a cold glass of water. But I’m scared.”
I was. Frightened and angry. At me, at Sam, at Quentin and at Mr. B. Hell, I was just mad at the world but too wrapped up in self-pity over my stomach woes to do anything about it.
“Why don’t you come out and I’ll rub your body down with a cold rag?”
Now that was an invitation. I flushed the toilet just to buy myself some time. The cold floor against my face felt good.
“Ella?”
He was at the other side of the door. Probably with his head stuck through. If he was visible, he’d probably look like he was in the guillotine.
Schwack! Off with his head.
I frowned, then bit my lip. No. Beheaded isn’t how I wanted to see Quentin end up. Mr. B maybe, but not Quentin. My heart was already justifying his nagging.
Fingers splayed on my shoulders. Yes. They kneaded, lightly, finding tension knots from weeks of stress. I practically melted the rest of the way onto the floor.
“I just want to go to bed,” I whined, but feeling justified. “I don’t feel strong enough for a shower right now. Help me get to bed”
Considering my lack of sleep the night before, I figured I’d fall asleep immediately. Not so.
Quentin sat in a chair beside me. And watched me.
“Don’t you have something to do?” I sounded bitchy. But I really didn’t care. “Doesn’t Mr. B need you to fetch him coffee or train magical assistants or something?”
I opened one eye and watched him. He lowered the book he was using as a half-fence. “Nope.”
“You haven’t turned a page in ten minutes. I know you’re not reading.”
His eyebrow arched above the spine but he relaxed in the chair. “So?”
“Go away. I can’t rest with you watching me.”
He did the unexpected. He stood, dropped the book and stripped off his shirt. Next he unsnapped his jeans. I sucked in my breath. Dear God. What was he doing?
“If you’re entertaining me with a strip show, at least hum and shake your hips a little. You won’t get good tips otherwise.”
Seems I’d thrown up my intestines, but not my sarcastic attitude.
Quentin’s sense of humor, on the other hand, had found its way to the sewer. “Move over, Ella. We’re taking a nap.” I had no choice. Either become Quentin’s mattress or move. I moved. Quentin, in just his briefs, slid beneath the covers.
He snapped his fingers. Lights dimmed, but the room was still bright from the sun streaming in the half-opened blinds. He snapped again and
it was dark.
I lay there, stiff as the headboard above me until sleep claimed me. Then I slept like the dead. I never felt anything more than the covers shift and the mattress give.
He was gone when I woke up. I hadn’t expected anything less.
The inability to think, hash out the plan, was undoubtedly the source of my anxiety and core reason my body rebelled.
Or they could have poisoned the food, tipped off by my mental ramblings.
Valium, anyone?
The note was on my dresser, propped up so I wouldn’t miss it, when I came out of the bathroom. I hadn’t heard a thing. I was only in there ten minutes.
My thumb brushed over the crisp, heavy bond paper. I smoothed it through my fingers. Prestige. It would hold a demand, not a request. Of that I was sure. My name was printed neatly across the front. Ella Mansfield. My name meant nothing. Nothing. I had been erased, yet here it was, right in front of me.
“Here goes.” I snapped the seal. Wax. Gothic, but just Mr. B’s style. Three words, in the same elaborate typeset, graced the middle of the page.
Dinner. Six. Formal.
Groan, I added a fourth word to humor my growling stomach. But it wasn’t hungry. No way, no how. Pure revulsion.
Now what? I suppose checking the closet would be my first smart step. I thought about the last fiasco involving the fancy ball gown.
Ugh.
The idea of pink frills on yellow lace or purple taffeta made me more nauseous than the prospect of dinner.
“Don’t back down now,” a voice in my head echoed. “You’re on the right track.”
I didn’t dare name the source, even though it left me sagging in relief. Breathe, I commanded myself. See? You’re not alone. It’s okay.
“Gee, your magic must really be well developed if you were able to sense me come in. I was going to surprise you.” Quentin held up a half-gallon of milk and a container of Oreos.
I swallowed hard to squelch the scream and the bitterness that rose in my throat. “No,” I sputtered out. “No food. Get out. I’m not well. Go.”
“Ella?” He dropped the food on the table and hurdled the bed. Well, almost. I couldn’t help but giggle as his foot entangled in the covers and brought him to his knees. He barely let it slow him down. “What’s wrong, you’re still not feeling better?”
Gulp. “Absolutely not.”
“What is it, what do you need?”
I spread my arms wide. He stepped into them, pulled my head to rest on his shoulder. For the first time since this fiasco started I felt warm and safe. Without any doubts clouding my head. Finally. I let the peace wash over me and dreaded for this moment to end.
“Better?” He must have sensed how my body relaxed.
“Yeah, a little.”
“A little? It’s tough being the sensitive man here. You’ve got to give a bit.”
I laughed into his shirt. “Do I really have to do this formal dinner thing tonight? Can you write a note saying I’m sick or something?”
“I’d bet Mr. B would want to see you for himself. Chances are he’d call a doctor. Do you want that?”
He’d backed up and looked me in the eye. I didn’t think I wanted to answer his unspoken question.
Big sigh. “What time is it?” I didn’t trust my clock, or my stomach to tell me it was after lunch.
“About two.” Well, maybe I should have. Four hours to prepare, eh?
“Okay, okay.” I surrendered. I dropped my hands to my side. “But you get to pick out my dress.”
The metallic taste of regret coated my tongue. What had I done? I couldn’t wait to see my punishment.
Then the idea hit me. It didn’t matter what dress he chose. I could make an appearance and then…a disappearance.
It was really a shame. The gown Quentin had picked was actually pretty. Not in a lacy, feminine way, but in a dark, gothic theme. I shouldn’t even call it pretty. It was…I fingered the black mesh overlay…medieval. But I don’t know anything about historical periods.
Ah heck.
I let the robe drop and I slid the dress over my bare body. Well, if this wasn’t the cat’s meow. The rose colored panel pushed up cleavage and pushed down on my stomach. It made curves where I didn’t think I had any. Now this, if any, would be the costume to take home.
My hands dropped to my sides. Home was a distant memory. Who knows where I’d end up—but the walls of this compound were all I had at the moment. And they wouldn’t be around long.
I unlaced the black satin criss-cross tie and pulled the yards of material over my head with a dejected sigh. I was wasting entirely too much time feeling sorry for myself.
I needed something to wear now. Something unobtrusive that would allow me to blend with the decor. The dresser drawers had been adequately filled with a variety of clothes. Something comfortable was the ticket. I passed over the camouflage tank top and Hawaiian print shirts. No, no neon t-shirts, no spandex. Give me denim and a white t-shirt here, people. Where’s your fashion sense?
Ugh. I finally gave up and slipped on a kelly green polo and khaki shorts. Just call me a regular old girl scout.
My fingers were a bit rusty, but I managed to secure my hair into a smooth French braid. Screw makeup. It’d serve them right to have to stare at my boring unadorned features. Maybe Quentin wouldn’t be so enchanted.
But he was just as inquisitive.
“Where are you going?” He found me in the hall, three steps from my door.
“Out.”
“Where?”
“Out.”
“Looking for Oreos?”
Looking for a knuckle sandwich? I so wanted to ask him that and in the same breath tell him I didn’t care if I never saw another cookie in my life. “No,” is what came out instead. Best not to bait him and make him think I was hiding something.
Too late, I realized he was honing in on my thoughts. I could tell. His eyes darkened.
“Hey, can’t a girl go exploring?”
“Not here.”
“I promise not to enter any room marked employees only, okay? Those four walls have me losing my sanity. And you know I’m on the edge already, don’t you, Quentin?” I stood up so my nose touched the tip of his.
“See you at six.” I planted a chaste kiss on his stony lips and whirled away.
“Ella!” He grabbed my braid like a horse’s rein and nearly ripped me off my feet.
“What the hell!”
“Sorry.” He had the decency to look apologetic. “That was a lousy kiss, you know.”
His mouth hit mine with all the heat and power of lava from a volcano. His tongue invaded my mouth, tempting, teasing. A strobe light of our first time together flashed in my mind.
Fingers relaxed on my braid and cupped the back of my head, tilting it back for his desperate pillaging. Nerve endings came to life, sending tingles through my body. The pressure of his lips left me hungry for so much more of him—I ached with the want for this man—all of him, body and heart.
“Ella,” he breathed. “Let’s go back inside your room.”
I let him lead me two steps closer to the door and then I stopped him. I had to know. I was too invested in this emotionally to let him take advantage of me. “Why, Quentin?” I muttered against the pulse in his neck. His fingers slid down my body and across my lower back. There, his thumb rubbed erotic circles. I hated the layer of material between my skin and his. He held me tightly against the evidence of his passion. I got a grip on my emotions before they betrayed me. “Why do you want to make love to me? Do you love me, or is this a distraction technique?”
“I don’t know, is it working?”
Immediately I thought of icy rain and blustery winds. Mental cold shower. “No,” I answered, and backed out of his embrace and put my back to him. Looking at him, seeing those dark green eyes darken with desire would be too much. I knew I’d ache to push his hair off his face, to run my hand over his strong jaw line and pretend I didn’t care why he kiss
ed me. I’d just let him. So I didn’t look.
“Wait, honey, I was just joking. You know I do.”
“Do what?” I stopped but didn’t turn around.
I heard his breathing. Felt his heat, smelled the musky soap he’d showered with. And wanted him. But I didn’t find the words I needed anywhere.
“Sorry.” I continued down the hall. It didn’t matter what Sam said. If Quentin couldn’t say it, I couldn’t do it.
The idea of exploring didn’t have the same spark as it had initially. Still, I let my fingers trace the carved wooden trim that lined the hall. Even the air felt better on my lungs. I needed this. The taste of freedom...
...had gone sour.
There was no doubt I wasn’t supposed to be here. I didn’t cross any yellow tape, or enter any doors with a skull and crossbow signs. Yet I knew.
“What a surprise, Ella, I expected you to be preparing for tonight’s event. Are you lost?”
His voice was nails down a chalkboard. Especially his condescending final sentence.
I inclined my head. “Well, actually, I may be. I expected to find a doorway to the gardens along this hallway.”
Mr. B frowned. “We’ve no gardens here and I’m afraid I can’t trust you enough to allow you to leave the walls of this compound anyway, Ella. You’re a risk.”
I ignored his distrust. I didn’t expect for him to plop a crown on my head and anoint me a princess. “No gardens? But I remember an enclosed square of wonderful, colorful blooms. Was it a dream?”
He stared at me as if my hair had faded to pink and I’d popped out an extra eye. “We’ve no such thing.”
I reached up to scratch my head. “But I could’ve sworn—”
He squeezed my shoulder, turned me back around and led me down the hall. “Why don’t you head back and start preparing for tonight’s events?”
It wasn’t an option.
Chapter Twenty
My curiosity was more than piqued. What was Mr. B hiding that was so important he escorted me all the way back to my room himself? Did he think I’d turn around and retrace my steps? Was he going to stand guard to make sure I didn’t? Why?
Believe the Magic Page 27
