Outside was twilight, inside was silence and she could feel dark thoughts hovering all around her. But to her surprise instead of closing in, they were held at bay by all the other memories that came flooding back, happy memories, a long sweet, unexpected rush of them. She remembered sitting on the front porch steps and blowing soap bubbles with her mother, and learning to ride her first bike along the long narrow driveway, her father trotting alongside, pink plastic streamers flying from her handlebars, and the rainy-day joy of curling up with a book in the window seat in the sunroom.
And she remembered how Grand’s roses looked in summer and the quiet buzzing of the honeybees they attracted and how the sweet, safe scent of them saturated the air so that even with her eyes closed she could have found her way home.
Home.
Suddenly the scent of roses was all around her, calming and comforting her. Olfactory recall, she thought with a smile as she closed her eyes and drank it in until there was no room for fear.
“Thanks, Grand,” she whispered, releasing a final breath and reaching for the door handle.
She crossed the street slowly, wanting time to study the house.
The cosmetics had changed. Gone were the peeling paint and overgrown hedges of her childhood. But the bones of the house, all that the fire had failed to turn to ash, were the same. And achingly familiar to her. There was the same wide, wraparound front porch and the same lofty windowed turret standing sentry to all of Providence. She let her gaze climb higher, to where the raven should have been perched and was disappointed to see that the weather vane that had stood guard through blizzards and hurricanes was also gone. But even that loss was balanced by the paving stone remaining in place by the front steps, the Celtic protection runes chiseled into its surface, a bit worn by time and nature.
She’d once asked Grand what the ancient symbols meant.
“Enter here in peace or not at all,” Grand told her.
Apparently the stone’s power to ward off danger had also worn a little thin over the years, noted Eve, reaching for the heavy brass knocker on the front door.
Because she definitely had not come in peace.
Hazard answered the door too quickly, making her suspect he’d seen her coming. Or maybe he’d sensed she was near the same way she’d sensed him earlier. Whatever the reason, he didn’t look surprised to see her.
He greeted her with a small nod and a slow, satisfied smile that made Eve feel like the silly little canary to his big, shrewd cat. It was galling, and she purposely drew herself up and lifted her chin.
“Miss Lockhart. I’m glad to see you’ve decided to be sensible about this. For both our sakes.”
“Don’t get too excited, Hazard. I’m not here to sell you anything. I’m here to take back what’s mine.”
She stepped past him and kept going, crossing the foyer in a few long strides to peer into the sunroom that ran along the front of the house.
“Please, do come in,” he drawled in a sardonic tone as he closed the door. “And tell me what you’re talking about.”
Eve ignored the question, and him, and started down the hall in the direction of the living room, still moving quickly in case he was of a mind to stop her. Thankfully the layout of the house hadn’t changed, although even a quick glance revealed that the look was entirely different. There was no flowered wallpaper or drapes or comfy overstuffed seating. The walls and woodwork had been painted the same mellow shade of white, and the only window coverings were white pleated shades.
The furniture—what there was of it—was tasteful and understated, low-slung sofas dressed in crisp white slipcovers and dark, highly polished wood tables and accents. Except for the liquor bottles lined up on the marble bar, it felt more like a Pottery Barn showroom than a home. And what she found even more interesting was what wasn’t there: no photos, no books, no knicks or knacks of any kind anywhere. The Pottery Barn actually had more warmth and personality.
Most significantly, there was also no Rory. Eve wasn’t naive enough to think Hazard would stand by and allow her to barge in so easily if he had a kidnap victim sitting around in plain view, but she thought she might spot something belonging to Rory. Maybe even something she’d dropped intentionally as a clue for when Eve came looking for her. And Rory had to know that she would come looking . . . and keep looking until she found her. All she needed was one little clue to tell her she was searching in the right place.
And she wasn’t going to find it standing there. She was impatient to keep moving and search the rest of the house from top to bottom, but there was only one way out of the living room and Hazard was blocking it. He stood with his shoulder resting on the doorjamb, the sleeves of his black sweater pushed to the elbow, presenting a picture of calm indifference that was a stark contrast to her own tightly wound nerves. Then she noticed the tension in those nicely muscled forearms of his and the rigid set of his jaw and she realized he wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared. He reminded her of a tiger, still and silent and poised for the kill; she put her odds of sashaying past him a second time at negative something.
“Shall I roll back the rug so you can have a look under there as well?” he inquired, indicating the black and gold and burgundy Oriental. It was funny how his British accent made sarcasm sound so much more . . . sarcastic.
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”
“Beneath the seat cushions? Inside the chimney perhaps?”
Hmm. Either would make an excellent hiding place for the pendant, but the fact he’d suggested them meant it wasn’t there. Unless, she mused, he was using reverse psychology and intentionally dangling the truth in an attempt to mislead her.
Eve caught herself mid-conjecture and stopped. It didn’t matter what he was or was not dangling. All that mattered right now was Rory, and she wasn’t going to find her under a rug or a seat cushion.
She shook her head firmly to decline his offer.
“Good. In that case, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what’s going on.”
“The pendant is gone,” she announced, and took careful note of the reactions that flickered rapid-fire across his face: surprise, confusion, disbelief. They all appeared genuine, but he might just be a good actor, delivering a clever, even magical performance.
“What do you mean it’s gone?” he demanded, his deep voice taut. “Gone where?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why would you think . . . ?” He stopped and frowned. “Are you saying you lost it? It’s been in your possession for less than a day and you’ve lost it?”
“Of course I didn’t lose it. It was taken from me. There’s a difference.”
“Not one that matters a rat’s ass,” he shot back. “What matters is that you don’t have it.” He bit off the last word, his expression darkening as if the reality of the situation was settling on him in stages. “And you think I do. That’s why you came here . . . you think I took it.”
“I think it’s possible. Either you or the warlocks; for all I know you’ve been working together all along.”
He glared at her in icy, arms-folded, jaw-clenched silence.
She folded her own arms and glared back. “The pendant’s not my biggest concern. I think whoever took it also took my niece.”
“I see. So you’re accusing me of not only breaking into your home and stealing from you, but also kidnapping a child while I’m at it.”
“Not a child exactly. Rory is fifteen.”
“Trust me,” he growled, “as far as I’m concerned that’s close enough. Do you really believe I’m capable of that?”
“I have no idea what you’re capable of,” Eve snapped. “I don’t know you. And I really don’t want to.”
Hazard stiffened, her words striking like darts. Emotions he hadn’t felt in a very long time were stirring inside him and he didn’t like it. Some of them he wasn’t sure he could even put a name to anymore; others, like anger, he knew intimately. Anger was both fa
miliar and useful, though admittedly his usual brand was cold and controlled, not the seething, wild thing straining at the bit inside him now. Over the years he’d nourished his anger until it was more than a feeling, it was armor and motivation and, in a perverse way, comfort.
It was failing him now, however, because he didn’t feel either comforted or protected. He felt raw and exposed, with nothing to buffer him from the accusations that Eve Lockhart’s fiery green eyes were shooting at him. And nothing to shield himself from the maelstrom of other feelings she unleashed.
Damn witch.
This ridiculous ruckus inside him was her fault. She was to blame for the peculiar heaviness around his heart and the odd lump in his throat and the completely asinine way he was standing there as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him for no better reason than that she thought ill of him.
I don’t know you. And I don’t want to.
That was plain enough. And what did it matter that her reasoning was dead wrong? He hadn’t taken the pendant, and he certainly hadn’t kidnapped her niece . . . though he was thinking now that he should have. The pendant, not the niece.
Instead of wasting the morning tracking down Vasil and paying him to stay away from her, and then going to the trouble of bluffing his way into her office to try again to appeal to the common sense he now realized she was clearly lacking, he should have gone straight to her house, stolen the pendant and put an end to his misery. And spared himself all this nonsense in the bargain. But no, for some ungodly reason he hadn’t wanted to leave her with the belief that he was no better than Vasil’s henchmen. The longer he’d laid awake thinking about her, the more he’d found himself wanting to deal with her . . . honorably.
A fool never learns.
All that was irrelevant now. He knew he hadn’t stolen anything from her and that would have to be enough to satisfy his honor. In fact, when you got right down to it, she was the one who stole from him. If not for her bloody magic tricks he would have been the high bidder and walked away with the pendant. Instead, she’d pilfered it from him and then turned right around and lost it before he could pilfer it back. He was the injured party in all this. So why should it matter to him if she thought him a liar and a thief?
It shouldn’t. It didn’t. He refused to let it. It simply rankled to know that she was standing there, toe-to-toe with him, green eyes blazing and chin high, thinking exactly that. It rankled nearly as much as the ease with which she managed to twist him up inside and throw him off his game. It was humiliating. Not to mention dangerous. He couldn’t afford to be distracted now. Too much time and effort had gone into planning this, and everything hinged on him getting his hands on the pendant. He might never get a second chance, so the prospect of failure ought to be enough to command his undivided attention.
Witch, he thought again, wishing it were that simple. Unfortunately, his turmoil had nothing to do with Eve Lockhart being a witch and everything to do with her being a woman.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, he thought for the second time. Others might disagree, but he knew it to be true. Everything about her pleased and tempted him. Just looking at her made him want to touch, and he knew that touching her would make him want everything. Would make him want all of her.
He wouldn’t take it all at once. Not that he would ever get the chance, but if he did he wouldn’t ravish her in a greedy rush, as much as his senses would rage and clamor for him to do just that. If he could, he would claim her in a hundred, no, a thousand small, excruciatingly slow bites. He would savor her as if they had all the time in the world, as if they had forever.
He would slide his fingertips over her face and throat to discover if her skin could possibly feel as smooth and flawless as it looked.
He would press his palm gently to her cheek and feel the warmth that rose there when she grew flush, the way she was right now.
He would slip his hands beneath the gold and copper silk of her hair and lift it so he could kiss the back of her neck and the enticing curve of her shoulder, slowly, until he found the spot that would make her shiver and sigh with pleasure.
He was thinking of other hidden places he would kiss her when he suddenly became aware that something about her expression had changed. She still looked intense and watchful, like some magnificent warrior princess from a fairy tale, but one who was less accusing, more uncertain. How long, he wondered, had he been standing there staring at her, lost in his own foolish thoughts? Long enough for her to surmise what he was thinking? He thought not. She seemed too consumed with thoughts of her own to care about his.
He took a few seconds to try to think of the right thing to say, gave up and tried to think of anything to say. It didn’t help that at the same time he was trying to not look at her sweater, and finding it no easier now than it had been that morning in her office. The sweater was soft and snug and he had no idea what sort of lacy feminine thing she might be wearing under it, but in his rusty—not to be confused with amateurish or unskilled—opinion, it looked as if the only thing under there was her, and the mere possibility he was right made it nearly impossible for him to think about anything else.
There was a name for the color of her sweater, but he hadn’t been able to remember it. The colors all had names, a different one for every shade and hue. It had been so long since he’d spoken or even thought those words that they didn’t come to him readily. He hadn’t needed them. Part of him didn’t want to need them or think them now.
It had been a conscious choice to banish color from his world, and he’d made it for a reason. Color had become a double-edged sword, bringing him as much pain as beauty. Something as simple as a rainbow hanging in a summer sky or the amber promise of a pint of freshly drawn ale brought with it the memory of a day or a night or even a single moment in the life that was once his, the life lost to him forever, and as quick as the slash of a razor he would want it all back . . . want it so badly it hurt. To see things drained of color made the memories duller, the wanting less . . . disruptive. It made it easier to live without.
Apparently he was to have no such say about the return of color to his world. It was happening whether he liked it or not. Although everything else was still gray, he was able to see Eve Lockhart in full, glorious color and he liked it. And he hated it. And he wouldn’t change it now even if he had the choice.
He suddenly remembered the name for the color of her sweater: lavender. Lavender, like the fields near the village where he grew up and the fragrant sprigs his mother used to slip between fresh linens in the linen press.
Eve cleared her throat, and Hazard’s gaze shot up to meet hers.
“And I’m also here because I’m desperate and I didn’t know where else to go. I only know I have to find her.”
She said it fast, as if to get the words out before she changed her mind. It was as awkward and roundabout a plea as he’d ever heard; but then, being a mighty witch and accomplished news-woman, she probably didn’t get much practice asking for help.
When she finished, her bottom lip trembled just a little and she drew a deep breath, deep enough to lift her chest. But he was no longer looking at her sweater; he was staring into her eyes instead. And seeing a woman with her guard down, a woman who was worried she was in over her head and afraid someone she loved would suffer because of it. The resentment he’d felt at being falsely accused faded away, along with his anger over the lost pendant.
The unexpected glimpse of vulnerability didn’t fit with his first impression of her, but it did tug hard enough on what was left of his heart to make him forget he’d sworn off damsels in distress. He suddenly felt like moving a mountain or slaying a dragon or doing whatever it would take to make her world right again.
That’s why he abruptly turned and strode to the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey. God knows he didn’t need a drink, but he did need time to pull himself together and stop himself from thinking the kind of crazy thoughts that could ruin a man’s life if he wasn’t careful. H
e needed time to clear Eve Lockhart from his head.
He filled the glass and then left it sitting on the bar when he heard movement behind him. She was almost out of the room.
“Stop,” he ordered, and was surprised when she did. “I know where you’re off to and I’ll save you the trouble. Your niece isn’t here. Neither is the pendant. Not that I wouldn’t steal it. You were right to suspect me. I assure you I’m capable of that and worse. I want it that badly. I fully intend to have it, and when all is said and done I really don’t care how I get it. To be honest, I wish now I had just stolen the damn thing from you. But even if I had, I would never have touched your niece or taken her or harmed her in any way.” He met her gaze unflinchingly and saw the dark suspicions still lurking there. “That’s beneath even me. I give you my word on it. You can trust that I’m telling you the truth, or you can waste more time searching the rest of the house. It’s your choice.”
He waited and watched as she studied his face and considered his claims. It wasn’t until she finally nodded that Hazard realized he’d been holding his breath to see what she would do . . . if she would choose to believe him.
“If you don’t have her,” she said, “the warlocks must. Either them or whoever it is they work for. Can you tell me how to find them?”
“I could. But you don’t want to go chasing after them.”
“Because they’re dangerous?”
“No. They are dangerous, but that’s not the reason. I think we both know you could hold your own with them.”
She looked surprised. “We do?”
“After last night? Absolutely. Which is why tracking them down would only waste more time. They don’t have your niece.”
“You sound very sure of that,” she said, her tone making it clear she wasn’t.
“I am. In order to get to her, or the pendant, they would have to break into your house, and they would never do that.”
“Why not? Because you paid off their boss? Don’t take this the wrong way, Hazard, but maybe he wasn’t as easily bought as you thought. Maybe he duped you. Or maybe he doesn’t even know about it . . . maybe they did this on their own time so they wouldn’t have to split the proceeds.”
The Lost Enchantress Page 11
