by Jane Cousins
“Problem?” A skinny woman with jutting cheek bones and pillowy pouty lips wearing way too much makeup and dressed in a skin-tight white pantsuit stepped forward. Her hair was cut in a spikey black expensive do, the red lipstick she’d slathered on matching the bright red belt she had wrapped around her narrow waist. Her dark eyes fixed on Erik as her lips curved upwards in obvious approval.
Cara fought not to roll her eyes, honestly, the woman might as well lick her lips she was that far from subtle in her approval of Erik’s physical attributes.
“Welcome ladies.” Erik forced a bland smile, not letting his eyes linger on any of the ladies for too long in case they got the wrong idea. “I was just discussing with my… colleague here, that we are lacking a model for this evening.”
“I’ll do it.” The skinny woman in the pantsuit volunteered readily.
Erik tamped down the urge to laugh. Teaching his students how to shape clay into a stick figure would hardly prove challenging. “Thank you for the offer but…”
Cara reached over, snatching the silk sheet from Erik’s hands as she shot the woman in the white pantsuit a serene superior smile. “…I’ve already said I’ll do it.”
Chapter Four
Men were scum and Erik Valhalla was the scummiest scum of them all. Talking to her breasts like that! Asshole.
Cara should have sent him a death glare and stormed off, never to speak to him again. But then those women had walked in, positively eating Erik up with their eyes. Something inside of her had just… snapped.
Which was not a good thing historically. When she snapped lately, bad things happened; sinkholes, toupees caught fire, computers exploded, gravity too often made its harsh presence known and she ended up dressed in nothing but a sheet with half her ass hanging out in the breeze.
Thank heavens she’d performed Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in college. With the help of a few hair pins she’d managed to create a pretty decent toga that covered all her important bits. For extra camouflage she’d undone her hair and let the glossy mass of ringlets spill down to her waist.
Stepping out into the domed room with all eyes on her, judging, critiquing, had been one of the hardest things she’d had to do in ages. But she had a plan, which she implemented by focusing solely upon the raised dais, looking neither left nor right as she moved forward. Shoulders back, head held high, she tried her best to look confident and serene but was willing to settle for wooden yet determined.
Once on the dais, she sank down on the box Erik had placed there earlier and snatched off her glasses, tucking them discreetly out of the way as she leant back on one elbow. Much better. The room was now just a blur full of shapes and moving blobs. All she had to do was sit there and think about… muscular tanned arms, no, no, she should be thinking about what colour to paint the children’s wing, carpets, lighting fixtures and decorations. She should definitely not be wondering if the five o’clock shadow clinging to Erik’s chiselled jawline would be soft or delightfully rough under her touch.
Honestly woman, get your mind off the lothario in too tight jeans and think about wood finishes.
The problem with just sitting there, effectively blind, was that Cara found her other senses kicking into high gear. The cloying smell of a dozen different perfumes assaulted her nose and her hearing suddenly seemed to have clicked into the acute range, set specifically to pick up Erik Valhalla’s husky masculine tones.
The man moved around the room fast, never lingering too long in one place or paying too much attention to any of his adoring female students. Which wasn’t right, was it? If the man was such a player, one who stood too close for comfort and stared down a woman’s cleavage intently as if he expected her breasts to talk… well, then shouldn’t he be chatting, flirting and making the moves on this bevy of all too willing beauties?
Cara could clearly hear the escalating desperation in the ladies voices as they competed, attempting to attract Erik’s attention their way with too breathy queries, forced coy laughter and throaty whispered faux pleas for help.
She was surprised a tornado hadn’t formed in the room from all the batting of eyelashes and heavy sighs of disappointment as Erik blocked every come hither invitation with a friendly, but impersonal comment on how they might try refining their clay modelling technique.
It just made no sense. If the man was such a lech… then why wasn’t he leching on to any of these blatantly eager women?
Grrr, the man was all the colours of confusing.
Half an hour into the workshop Cara was mentally patting herself on the back. She’d risen to a challenge, kept her dignity and only had to survive another hour before she could scurry off, get dressed and close the library up for the evening, never to deal with Erik Valhalla and his smarmy, confusing ways ever again.
Hmm, with the classical music playing softly, this was almost relaxing, like a meditation class. She totally had this under control… piece of cake. She’d be able to look back on this evening with pride… well, except for the whole mysterious explosion of her powers earlier, resulting in the screwdriver turning into a guided missile targeted directly at Erik Valhalla. But still, that was ten whole days between incidents. A personal best since all this craziness began eighteen months ago at her mother’s funeral… no, she wasn’t going there.
Perhaps her time would be better spent trying to come up with an explanation as to why her jinx powers had changed since she’d arrived at the Southern Sanctuary. The lava ball settling lower in her body obviously signified something new was going on. And tonight marked the second time the hot chaotic ball had exploded with absolutely no warning… no change in her breathing or vision, no panic what so ever, just hot roiling to explosive release in less than a second.
She’d dismissed the initial incident, the time she’d clapped eyes on Erik and he’d taken a fall off a ladder as an anomaly. New town, new job, her nerves were already on edge. But now with this second incident… it had to be a coincidence. And Erik being present at both events was just pure happenstance. No way could he have anything to do with the change in how her chaos whammy was being triggered… could he?
So something had changed, it was nothing to be concerned about, she’d learnt to manage her accidents over the last eighteen months, she could certainly learn to handle these new changes. Deliberately she chose to ignore the glaring factor that even with all her breathing techniques, picturing a bunny infested meadow and counting, she had never successfully avoided an incident in the past. That was then… the past… this was now.
She was in a safe secure environment. She had a job she loved. A cosy house to live in and she’d made some lovely friends. Plus, she was the descendent of a God. She totally had this under control. This was a new era of controlled chaos. No more surprises. No more embarrassing weird events. No more smouldering hair pieces shaped like a mongoose.
That feeling of smugness lasted for about ten seconds before a sudden flurry of whispered spiteful catty comments penetrated her relaxed state and set the fuse on the bomb settled low in her body.
* * *
Erik had sinned… badly, deeply and long.
There was no other explanation for why the Goddess above was punishing him like this. Bad enough to have twelve high maintenance novice clay modellers, each frantically batting their eyelashes his way and vying for his individual attention, but the cherry on top of the moment was smack dab in the centre of the room, barely wearing a carefully draped sheet.
He’d been praying that Cara would lose her nerve but no, five minutes after she had disappeared to disrobe she’d marched back out, plonking herself down on the dais like she walked about wearing nothing but a sheet every damn day of her life.
And bloody hell if she didn’t look edible. He had to give her credit, somehow she’d managed to drape the material around her like it was a toga, leaving exposed one golden smooth shoulder and a hell of a lot of thigh. Erik admired her for rising to the challenge and still retaining her dignity.
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br /> The only slightly amusing part of the whole debacle was the look on several of the ladies faces when he had made it clear that they were expected to work this evening. Many grumbling as they put on the large blue protective aprons over their carefully selected man-bait outfits, worn, he could only surmise, for his benefit.
There was more grumbling as he explained the techniques involved in clay modelling and the realisation finally sunk in for many that they were about to ruin their expensive manicures and be forced to get their hands actually dirty this evening.
After several minutes though, at least half the participants had actually begun to show some enthusiasm, focusing upon shaping and modelling their blocks. The rest of the group reluctantly capitulated when it became clear that working with their clay provided a good excuse to call him over, stand way too close to him and ask pseudo-arty questions.
Still, Erik kept his cool. Forty minutes into the session he’d worked up a pretty good rhythm of circling the room, giving each student a brief compliment or suggestion before moving on to the next female. No lingering, no small-talk. Determinedly he kept the mood light and casual… yet for some reason he still felt like he was navigating a minefield.
It was a wonder he wasn’t getting dizzy the way he was tap dancing around the room, side stepping invitations for drinks, come hither breathy compliments and embarrassingly blatant wandering hands, all the while resolutely avoiding looking in Cara Devigne’s direction.
For Goddess sake, for the third time he side stepped the lady wearing the white pantsuit as one of her hands swept out to give his butt a caress.
At the exact same moment a light sconce across the room blew, popping loudly. Erik frowned in its direction. That was kind of weird. In fact, several weird things had occurred in the last ten minutes. A stiletto heel had snapped clean off, a ball of clay had exploded for no reason, showering clay all over one lady. A bowl of water tipped over, a work table leg buckled mysteriously, and one of the participant’s chandelier earrings had become so badly ensnarled in her long blonde extensions that he’d been forced to seek out a pair of scissors. It was like they had mischievous Gremlins running around wreaking havoc or something.
Taking a break he took a few steps back to gauge the group’s progress as a whole, not bad for amateurs and it certainly helped having a bodacious model. He allowed himself a quick peek in Cara’s direction, his attention immediately caught and held by the high colour staining her cheeks and the blazing brightness of her blue eyes. He recognised anger simmering in those depths, something… someone had upset Cara. Or several someones… as he observed several of the ladies whispering back and forth, smiling, laughing. The man-eater in the white pantsuit, in particular, was looking mighty pleased with herself.
Silently he circled the group until he came within eavesdropping range. His teeth beginning to grind as he listened to their bitchy comments regarding Cara’s glorious curves and womanly size.
Seriously, did women really believe that men wanted to go to bed with a bag of bones? It was women who judged other women when it came to weight. Men… well, men were usually too busy salivating over bountiful breasts and bottoms to care about the numbers on a scale.
He should keep his mouth shut but cold rage burned in his gut. “So let’s talk a bit about the great artists and what… or rather who, inspired them.” He pitched his voice so the whole class could hear him. “All art is about creating… but the great works, the works that sing to you when you see them… that make you yearn to touch them… that capture and immerse your senses. They are only created when an artist finds the perfect muse. And when you think about the women who have touched the souls of artists throughout the ages there is no better example than Botticelli. His Venus rising from the waves… the three Graces… and his angels, heaven sent, but undeniably earthy in the reactions they provoke. In all of his paintings when Botticelli depicted women he gave them a golden aura, a sensuality of curves and an abundance of flesh… for the eye to feast upon, for the soul to worship… for a man to love.”
Cara had slipped on her glasses as Erik began his speech. The hot molten ball of lava situated low in her body began to churn and spin. Her breasts suddenly feeling too full and heavy as Erik’s cobalt gaze roved over her body as he spoke of sensuality… worship… love.
Merda, for the last ten minutes that strange ball of… anxiety, anger… chaos, had been giving out hard sharp metaphysical jabs in response to the hateful bitchy staged whispers echoing all too clearly across the bright mosaic tiles. Despite her breathing and counting in a desperate bid to try and smother the hot roiling ball it was only when Erik began talking that she felt the ball retract, like a wave retreats back to the ocean.
When Erik stopped speaking, a hush settled over the room and then like a well-timed stage direction, every female present, eyeing Erik with dewy eyes, tilted her head slightly and released a soft pent up dreamy sigh.
For a split second Cara had forgotten the twelve women present. And just like that, the laws of nature hit hard and fast as the ball of power that had receded came crashing back like a tidal wave hitting the shoreline.
With absolutely no warning given, the dais under Cara collapsed with a dramatic loud bang. The momentum sent Cara flying, the sheet ripped from her body, snagged on the box as she was sent tumbling to the floor in a flurry of limbs and a cloud of hair, absolutely and utterly stark naked.
Merda, there was no denying it, she really was cursed.
Chapter Five
Cara yanked on her blue cardigan, buttoning it all the way up, not caring if it throttled her. Well, she supposed if nothing else this evening, she had proven irrefutably that one could not die of embarrassment. No matter how much you wished for sweet oblivion to take you.
Grrr, she scrabbled through her handbag and went to work on her hair, pulling it ruthlessly back into a submissive braid. There, she straightened her glasses as she stared at her reflection. A no nonsense librarian stared back at her. If one could ignore the ultra-high colour in her cheeks and the ridiculous sparkly swirly pattern of blue and silver sequins that Riya had used to decorate the upper panels of her formerly exceedingly bland cardigan.
Feeling stupid, Cara nevertheless crept over to rest her ear against the door of the employee only rest room… silence, it seems like everyone had left. She prayed that was true. Snatching up her handbag she switched off the lights and cautiously opened the door, poking her head out. All was quiet, the lights dim. She passed by the employee break room, Patricia’s empty office and the conference facilities before entering into the patron area of the wing.
Devoted entirely to magic, spells, lore, myths and legend, this wing of the library was both exceedingly cool and a little bit spooky. With the aid of the dim night lights, Cara easily navigated her way down the centre of the room, moving stealthily over thick expensive carpet.
Bookcases lined the walls from floor to ceiling, mezzanine walkways with spiral staircases providing access to the upper reaches. There were lovely cushy reading nooks located both downstairs and upstairs, though considering that most of the books in this wing tended to be on the overlarge size, most patrons chose to do their research and reading at one of several massively large ornate desks located in the centre of the room.
As Cara moved between the desks she ignored the faint rustle of paper and the sound of leather sliding over leather. Patricia had warned her on her first day that some of the books in here weren’t just about magic, they were magic. Ignoring them was the best approach. And if she couldn’t ignore them she was to seek out one of the two full time staff members assigned to this wing and request their help.
Patricia had gestured towards a box with the words - emergency use only - written on it that from Cara’s brief glance inside appeared to be filled with oven gloves and metal wire, which at the time, had struck her as very weird. She had assumed it was some sort of harmless prank being played on her, until her second day when she witnessed a dark grey volume that
had been accidentally dropped suddenly explode into a flurry of flapping pages and snapping covers.
Oven mitts and wire be damned. That book looked like it had teeth. To her mind, chairs and whips would have been much more practical. From then on she’d been sure to treat the books she handled from this wing with the utmost care and respect.
Approaching the archway leading to the domed area, she paused at the threshold, prepared to run back the way she’d come if she heard the slightest sound or even a hint of a snicker. But there was nothing, no one.
With a deep breath of gratitude, she took a step onto the colourful mosaic tile. Any evidence of the clay modelling class had disappeared; the broken dais, the work tables, stools, buckets of water and supplies… all gone. The pot plants were once more in their normal spots and the tables and chairs were arranged perfectly, ready for the start of a new working day.
Had Erik done this? It seemed an entirely too thoughtful gesture for a man who flirted with… well, not every woman he met. Okay then, for a man who stared down the blouse of… again, not every woman he met… just her. Was that somehow significant?
And why was she even thinking about Erik Valhalla? She was never, ever, going to see the man again. She was a librarian… he was a handyman slash art teacher… or whatever it was he actually did to earn a living. If she played it smart and swapped hours on Thursday nights when the art classes were held then ta-da… a life of nice safe solitude would once more be hers.
And why did that sound so boring all of a sudden? She’d spent the last eighteen months praying for calm, for predictability, for peace, and now when all of that might actually be obtainable she was hesitating… because of a man? One who grinned at her with a predatory gleam in his eye and spoke in low ‘come to bed’ tones?
Honestly, what was wrong with her all of a sudden? Just how many times had she been hit on the head in the last eighteen months? Perhaps this was all just a dream, the Southern Sanctuary, being the descendant of the God of Chaos… Erik.
