Myth and Magic

by Mae Clair

  “If you’re asking whether or not I’m clean, I am. There haven’t been a lot of women since Derry.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed the second part, but he wouldn’t lie about the first. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she dismissed the last of her inhibitions. “As long as I’m the only one you think about tonight.”

  She wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her and allowed that passion to drive her. When he groaned, heaving against her, she snared his mouth beneath her own, more demanding than he had been. Breathless, she rocked against him. “Caith.” His name came on a tortured gasp, desire commanding that every inch of him fill her.

  He shuddered beneath the onslaught, fisting his hands in her hair, dragging her forward. Eagerly, she tugged at the buttons of his shirt. Two popped and pinged across the floor. He seemed shocked by her aggression, but quickly took control of the kiss, trapping her against the couch.

  Their clothing ended on the floor, and she abandoned herself to the exquisite sensations induced by his touch. He stroked and nuzzled her body, carrying her ever closer to a peak that resonated with the memory of that long-ago night on the bank of Stone Willow. She’d loved him then and loved him now. Release raced through her; together they tumbled over the edge. The explosion of pleasure left her gasping and vulnerable. Slowly, sanity filtered back and they lay twined together on the couch.

  Caith bowed his face into her hair. “I don’t want to let you go.”

  But he would. Like before.

  His bangs were damp with sweat. It made her realize how out of control they’d been. No love, no passion. Just need and mutual attraction. She was as much to blame as he. His lips brushed her throat. “I could make love to you all night.”

  Not I love you but I could make love to you. Tears pricked her eyes for the second time that night. She’d made a horrible mistake, allowing him to seduce her, believing he cared. Believing that somewhere beneath all that sensual coercion, he might feel tenderness.

  What did she expect? When push came to shove, she was as guilty as he, practically ripping his clothes from his body.

  “Ron.” He kissed her, brushing his lips tenderly against hers. The gentleness in the action left her confused.

  Trembling, she disentangled herself. “I have to go.” Had she really made love on the porch? What was she thinking?

  Thankful for the darkness, she scooped up her clothing. She pulled her loose skirt over her hips and slipped into the blouse unbuttoned. Had she really behaved with so little inhibition, tumbling into his arms? Shame made her cheeks burn. He’d taken what he’d wanted and scored his victory.

  “Ron, what are you doing?”

  She tripped over her shoes, collected the ruins of her panties and bra.

  “Veronica.” Caith stood and zipped his pants. “Stop rushing.”

  He was standing too close, his eyes reflecting pinpricks of light in the darkness. His shirt hung unbuttoned, the ends of his belt dangling loose from his jeans. With his black hair tangled, his bare chest banded by moonlight and shadow, he exuded all that was male and dangerous.

  Veronica’s heart quickened. “I have to go.”

  She started to turn away, but he caught her arm and drew her back. Hooking a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” The last time they’d done this, she’d been head over heels in love, giddy with the magic of what had passed between them. Now there was only emptiness and thorns, a gut-wrenching certainty she’d made a mistake. “Please, Caith. I just… I have to go.”

  She wrenched free, no longer able to keep the tears inside.

  “Ronnie.” His voice echoed in her ears, but she ran headlong from the porch, clutching her shoes to her chest. By the time she reached her apartment, she was sobbing in earnest. Slamming the door behind her, she pressed against the frame, too miserable to move.

  The memory of his touch rolled over her with heightened awareness, nearly as staggering as the stroke of his hands. With a little imagination, she could feel the warmth of his mouth over hers, the press of his body. She’d never wanted that to stop, never wanted him to stop touching her or loving her.

  “Ronnie.” Caith’s voice sounded on the other side of the door in combination with a sharp rap. “Ronnie, open the door.”

  Sniffling, she pulled herself together and straightened with a small measure of dignity. “Goodnight, Caith.”

  She turned the lock, clicking it loudly into place. He knocked a second time, protesting, but she walked into the bedroom, blocking his objections from her mind. She wasn’t a child. She’d made a mistake and would live with the consequences.

  But she’d be damned if she’d let it happen again.

  Chapter 10

  The following day Veronica steeled herself for the inevitable confrontation. It didn’t take long for Caith to hunt her down. Shortly after eight-thirty in the morning, he barged into her office, his expression black, his mood foul.

  “You mean you’re not going to lock the door on me?” he snapped, coming to an angry halt in front of her desk.

  Schooling her face for composure, Veronica looked up from the papers she was sorting. “I’m busy, Caith. Can’t this wait?” She was surprised by how callous she sounded.

  “No, it can’t wait.” He leaned forward, his hands on top of the desk, forcing her to face him. “I want to know what happened last night. I want to know why you took off the way you did. One minute you couldn’t keep your hands off me, and the next—”

  “Don’t.” Despite her vow to handle things as an adult, Veronica fought the urge to snap at him. She moved the papers aside, stacking them methodically in hopes of stalling for time. Knowing Caith wouldn’t be put off, she drew a breath and plowed ahead. “We needed to get past having sex. Now that it’s over, we can concentrate on what’s happening at the lodge without distraction.”

  “That’s it?” Caith stalked around the desk. He grabbed the arm of her swivel chair, and spun her around to face him. “That’s all it was to you? Sex?”

  “What did you think it was?”

  His expression was thunderous. “So you’re going to forget it happened? Forget about me?”

  “Isn’t that what you did twelve years ago?”

  He rocked backward as if slapped. His face went white, then hard. “I get it. This is payback.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” Veronica shoved from the chair. “I’m making an observation. And I’m letting you know I have no intention of continuing an intimate relationship with you. The lodge is more important.”

  “It wasn’t last night. If this is about Merlin—”

  “It has nothing to do with Merlin.” She’d prepared for this moment all night, rehearsing what she’d say when confronted, but every attempt at driving him away only made him more persistent. “I don’t know why it even matters to you. In another week or two, you’ll be back in Boston.”

  “Is that what this is about?” The anger left his eyes, replaced by something intent and dangerous. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. For the first time, she noticed a stubble of shadow framing his upper lip and jaw. He hadn’t shaved and looked like he’d barely dragged a comb through his hair. He was dressed in yesterday’s clothes, a sure sign he’d had no other thought than finding her when he’d awakened. She guessed his sleep had been as restless as hers.

  “Let go.” She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, lightly brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

  “Do we have to talk about Boston? Can’t we talk about how we feel now?”

  “And how is that?” Exasperated, she yanked her hand free.

  He was worming under her skin again, making her question her decision to keep him at a distance. Another woman would probably take the two-week fling, enjoy the great sex, but she couldn’t. He’d leave and this time she wouldn’t be able to pick up the pieces.

  “If last night wasn’t about sex, what was
it about?” she asked.

  She’d cornered him. There it was. That flash of panic in his eyes. Any whisper of commitment and he was ready to hightail it to the nearest exit. A buried part of her had secretly hoped to hear him pledge his heart.

  “I…I just…” He faltered.

  She returned to her desk, all crisp efficiency, able to dismiss him now that he’d confirmed her suspicions. He was shallow and self-centered, interested only in sex and a no-strings-attached fling. He hadn’t changed.

  “I have work to do, Caith. As you bluntly reminded me last night, BI pays me to run a lodge.”

  He hesitated, his expression caught between regret and anger. With a curt nod, he left the room, tugging the door shut behind him. Veronica picked up the nearest paper, blindly latching onto the first thing that sprang from the page—words, numbers—she didn’t care. It was better to lose herself in the mundane day-to-day functions of Stone Willow and forget about what had happened.

  Forget Caith.

  Imagining they had a future together was simply too painful.

  * * * *

  Caith bowed his head against the closed door. His chest was tight, his breathing ragged. She’d blindsided him just when he’d thought he was turning her around.

  If last night wasn’t about sex, what was it about?

  She’d thrown out a challenge and he’d failed miserably. She hadn’t been searching for anything permanent, just an assurance she meant more to him than a body in the bedroom. He couldn’t even manage frickin’ lip service. Rolling his hand into a fist, he rested it against the door. How pathetic was that?

  The moment she’d tossed out the words, he’d felt the familiar sense of panic kick in. Someone would hurt her. Someone would take her away. As foolish as it was, he couldn’t get past the fear. By staying silent, he’d reinforced her belief he was shallow and self-serving, interested only in sex.

  Exhaling loudly, he turned and slumped against the door.

  Time for damage control.

  * * * *

  Veronica yawned and rubbed her eyes. The numbers on the computer screen grew fuzzy, edging out of focus every time she blinked. She was already an hour overdue for lunch, but Alma usually set something aside when she worked late. The persistent rumble in her belly convinced her that addressing the accounts payable could wait. She tucked the paperwork inside a folder, preparing to call it quits when Alma appeared in the doorway.

  “Look what came for you.” The cook grinned ear-to-ear, a long, narrow box cradled in her arms. Veronica recognized the soft mauve cardboard and silver lettering that belonged to the town florist.

  “These must be from Merlin.” Alma shoved the box in her lap. “Well, don’t just sit there. Hurry up and read the card.”

  Veronica smiled. “I think you enjoy flowers more than I do, Alma.” She slipped the card free of a velvet ribbon. Lilies, carnations, and red roses were a matter of routine whenever Merlin acted foolishly, forgetting a date or her birthday. After their dinner last night, they’d agreed to be friends, nothing more. Were the flowers Merlin’s way of saying good-bye?

  Puzzled, she opened the card. Instead of the computer-generated note she expected from the florist, a strong, left-handed slant scrawled over the page:

  One for each year I screwed up and another for last night. I’m sorry I’ve been a jerk.

  Caith

  Veronica’s lips parted in shock.

  “Well?” Alma persisted.

  She tugged at the ribbon, pulling it free. “They’re from Caith.” Tossing the lid aside, she brushed back the fragile tissue paper. Tears stung her eyes. “He remembered.”

  Yellow roses. Thirteen yellow roses. One for each year I screwed up and another for last night. She wiped her eyes. “I can’t believe he remembered after all this time.”

  Alma shook her head. “I don’t understand you. Merlin sends you flowers at least once a month and all you say is ‘they’re nice.’ This”—she waved her hand in the air, groping for the right word—“person sends you roses and you sniffle like a waterworks.”

  “You wouldn’t understand. They’re yellow roses.” Veronica dabbed at her eyes with a knuckle.

  Alma leaned forward, silently counting. “Thirteen. What kind of fool sends an unlucky number of flowers?”

  “I think it’s the perfect number.” Veronica gathered the bouquet into her arms, savoring the rustle of paper, the heady floral scent. “Excuse me. I want to put these in water.”

  She was worthless the rest of the day. The vase stood on the corner of her desk. When she retired for the night, she planned to carry it to her apartment. It wasn’t fair he could strip her defenses so easily. He’d done something foolishly romantic and the gesture had awakened memories of the tender, kind-hearted boy she’d fallen in love with. Somewhere beneath Caith’s walls and masculine bravado, that part of him remained.

  It was almost six when Derry found her in the office, chin propped in her hand, staring dreamily at the roses. He peeked around the corner, Trask’s ball cap holding the unruly curls from his face. Caith had picked him up after school, bringing him to the lodge for dinner, but she’d avoided the dining room. To be more precise, she’d avoided Caith.

  “Ron, aren’t you going to Uncle Aren’s hayride?” Derrick leaned in the doorway, one arm tucked behind his back.

  She’d forgotten it was Aren’s opening night. Caith and the arrival of the roses had occupied her mind most of the afternoon. “I don’t know, Derry.”

  Outside, darkness was starting to fall, Halloween-black and starlit. The rain had departed overnight, but the temperature had taken a downward turn. She’d already helped Melanie with preparations over the preceding two weeks. If she went tonight, it would be as a spectator. Would Melanie and Aren even miss her if she wanted to stay snug at home?

  “I think I’ll stay here, Derry.”

  “But you could come with me and Dad. Pleeeease?” He tromped across the room, extending the hand he’d kept hidden. “Dad says thirteen is an unlucky number, so this is for whatever he messes up tonight.”

  Struck speechless, she stared at the yellow rose, uncertain if she should be angry or amused.

  “Okay, partner, I’ll take it from here.” Caith stepped into the office, dropping an affectionate hand on Derry’s head. “How about waiting for me out front?”

  “Okay.” Unaware anything was wrong, Derry handed his father the rose and bounded from the room. Pounding feet echoed down the hallway, fading around the corner.

  Caith extended the flower. “Offer’s still good.”

  “Does that mean you’re planning on messing something up?”

  She was surprised he was going to the hayride considering he’d always associated Halloween with Trask’s death. But Derry clearly wanted to go, and she had the feeling Caith would do almost anything for his son.

  Stepping to her side, he swiveled her chair around, an easy motion unlike the force he’d used earlier that morning. He was subdued, almost reflective. “I’ve got a bad habit of screwing things up. It’s a pattern with me.” He crouched beside the chair in a one-legged kneel and slowly trailed the yellow bloom down her arm. “But I don’t want to make any more mistakes with you, Veronica.”

  When she didn’t say anything, he nodded toward the vase on the corner of her desk. “Did you like the roses? Yellow was always your favorite.”

  “It was a sweet gesture.” Looking down on him, she found herself holding her breath. He was clean-shaven, his thick hair neatly combed. When he wasn’t being angry or seductive, his eyes were gentle. Unable to stop herself, she lifted a hand to his cheek, drawing back at the last minute. “Let me get my coat and I’ll go with you and Derry.”

  He grinned, flashing a heart-stopping smile. Catching her hand, Caith pulled her to her feet. “It’s a date.”

  * * * *

  By the time they reached Aren’s farm, the festivities were in full swing. Caith smelled roasted pean
uts and caramel apples, odors that brought back memories of childhood. The air was crisp, overseen by a cloudless black sky and a full moon the color of an overripe orange. Food vendors offering barbeque, french fries, apple cider, and slices of homemade pumpkin pie competed for space with colorful activity tents.

  Children played at apple dunking, pumpkin painting, and passing gooey unidentified objects in the dark. Every now and then, a girl squealed in frightened delight, or a young boy made a showy fuss of holding something that looked like oozing pig brains. Costumed ghouls appeared and disappeared, beckoning guests to follow to the hayride. A short distance away, the entrance to the corn maze was guarded by three witches huddled over a bubbling cauldron. Rumbling moans and high-pitched shrieks exploded from speakers mounted on poles scattered around the field.

  Despite the costumes and effects, the horror element was minimal, geared to be fun and nonthreatening for children. Tiny, bare light bulbs dangled from wires strung between poles, lighting the fields like midday. Dressed in a tattered black robe, his face painted with garish white makeup, Aren roamed the crowd, passing out free sacks of candy corn.

  “Here, for my favorite brother—zombie teeth. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  Caith caught the small sack Aren tossed him and handed it to Derrick. “Now I know what you look like when the suit comes off.”

  “Funny.”

  “Dad.” Derrick tugged on Caith’s sleeve. “Let’s go to the hayride. Look, there’s a corn maze, too. I gotta find Noah and Matt.”

  “They’re with your grandfather in the story tent,” Aren offered.

  Derrick grinned. “You look cool, Uncle Aren.” Still holding onto his father’s sleeve, he looked up at Caith. “Will you dress up when you take me trick-or-treating, Dad?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Veronica chuckled. He shot her a warning glance, but Aren was already ahead of her, leaning forward to talk to Derrick.

  “Tell you what, Derry. If your dad can’t find a costume, I’ll get him one. He used to love trick-or-treating when he was a kid.” Straightening, he grinned broadly at Caith. “He used to dress up along with Trask, Veronica, and Merlin. It was like playing trolls and ogres and getting rewarded for it.”