by Rhodan, Rhea
“It’s not my fault Trip’s my cousin. You can’t choose your blood, Clint, whether you want to or not. You can choose your companions, though.”
“Your cousin? Oh.” His broad shoulders relaxed. “I fired Dillon, and Darcy dumped me.” His curled finger rose to his lip, too late to halt what had clearly been an unintended confession.
Deciding to cut him a break, she poured him another cup of tea and said, “Your taste in companions isn’t all bad. Bill’s a decent guy. Sounds like you’ve had a tough week.”
“Bill is a nice guy. He’s been with Green Man pretty much from the get-go. Dealing with Dillon and Darcy bummed me out at first. All I feel now is relief. Monday morning was the real hell.” He went on before she could speculate on how his Monday had compared to hers. “And while I’m cleaning up messes, look, I hardly know where to begin apologizing. First off, I shouldn’t have left you alone out there in East Granby. You got hurt and tore that pretty dress—” he snorted “—not that you didn’t find a place for it.”
“Dr. Seuss wears it well, doesn’t he?”
“Dr. Seuss?” He laughed, loud and deep. He pointed at the poster over the desk. “Which explains that. What’s with the Dr. Who scarf, though? It is a Dr. Who scarf, isn’t it?”
“Good catch. He was born here in Springfield, you know.”
“Dr. Who?”
“Dr. Seuss. I couldn’t resist fusing them.”
“You do have a talent for unique combinations. Modern innovations to an antique bicycle, the computer with the roll-top, even the computer itself. A crow with a raven’s name. Some of it’s imagination, great imagination.” He flashed a charming smile. She steeled herself against melting. “But some of it is downright ingenious. Is your degree in engineering?”
“A hobby developed partially due to necessity. No degree.”
“What about the trophies in the display case at the fencing studio? They’re from good schools.”
“Never lasted. There was always one monumental unfortunate incident or another.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“Why you work at HandiMart when you have so many talents.”
“You sound like Trip, and he isn’t even aware of my job at HandiMart. Since I’m beginning to like you, I’ll tell you why. I scarcely break even on the studio. There are months I don’t. HandiMart is close. It provides health insurance. The graveyard shift suits me, and it pays better than the day shift.”
“What about all this cool stuff you can make? I bet you could sell it for loads of money. You could sell your grandmother’s scones. She made them, right?” He eyed the tray. “You want the last one?”
“Help yourself. I baked them yesterday, but they are Gran’s recipe. I occasionally build items for sale. I also do a little dealing in antiques and artifacts. Between Gran, the studio, HandiMart, and my personal needs, I’m plenty busy.”
“Doesn’t seem like you have much time for a social life. Speaking of HandiMart, how come you haven’t been there?” He wiped his fingers on the linen napkin.
She chose to ignore his comment on her social life. “I’ve been taking care of Gran. She’s not feeling well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. From what you’ve told me, she means a lot to you.”
“Most everything.” If the conversation was going to get this personal, she’d prefer to return it to him. “So what’s new with you? How are your headaches? Has the book helped with your insomnia?”
“Actually, I have been sleeping better since I began reading it, thank you. The headaches are killers. I’ve tried every damn brand of pain reliever made. Nothing touches them anymore. I was kind of hoping you could fix me up with some of that special tea you mentioned.”
“Of course. Do you have an infuser, or should I lend you one of mine? Would you like to borrow the second volume of Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque?”
“I’d love to check out Volume Two. And yeah, I guess I’ll need an infuser. Thanks.”
As she padded into the kitchen, he talked to her back. “This is really nice of you.” He sucked in a breath so deep she was tempted to turn around and watch him. “Maybe you’d let me take you out some time.”
“Stop, Clint.” Busying herself pulling out tins of dried oregano, chamomile, and the special tin Gran had spelled for her, she was thankful she hadn’t turned.
Measuring the ingredients with her hands was simple, as opposed to handling this situation. Sooner or later, she’d be obliged to maneuver Clint to the Crossing for the Joining. Going out with him could be a definite step in the right direction, unless he was only asking her out as a friend.
She swallowed. “Are we talking a date, or a misguided offer of remuneration?”
“Guilty as charged.”
The stinging arc piercing her now was better than major heartbreak later. She scooped the tea leaves into an extra tin and selected a suitable infuser. “Then I suggest you save your money for a new Barbie search.” After packing the items in a lovely brocade pouch, she walked straight to her desk. “Once I write out the instructions for preparing the tea, you’ll be all set.”
Strong callused hands gripped her lower arms gently from behind, sending shivers up her spine. Warm breath tickled her neck when he whispered in her ear. “That’s not what I meant, and another Barbie isn’t what I want.”
He turned her in his arms, cupped her face in his hands, tilted it up. His mouth descended. She squeezed her eyes shut. His lips were smooth, hot, soft. She opened to the teasing caress of his tongue, tasted sweet heat, tea, and man—real man. The charge swept all the way to her toes then back to her lips.
A loud popping and Clint’s shocked “Ow!” broke the kiss.
The hands cradling her face fell away, momentarily leaving Cayden with parted lips and closed eyes. By the time she recovered enough to blink, the familiar smell of burnt electronics had reached her nose and Clint was reaching in his front pocket.
“Lucky it was on this side, or I’d have burned my—What the…?” He stared at the skull and crossbones flickering on the display of his smart phone before it went blank.
“I’m sorry. I would have told you to turn it off if I’d known you were going to kiss me.”
Clint studied his smoking phone, then her. “I didn’t plan on kissing you. It just happened. What does that have to do with my phone dying?”
“It’s the same thing that happened to your truck on Beltane, only the phone won’t recover. The electronics are too delicate.”
“No.” He held his palm out. “It has to be a coincidence.”
“Tell that to your phone. Yourself too, if it makes you happy. But if you intend to kiss me like that in the future, you’d best turn your phone off or starting buying cheaper ones. I can scarcely get an iPod to last a month. I gave up on cell phones. Can’t live without portable music though.” She reined in her babbling with the affirmation: “My control is improving.”
“You’re not trying to tell me this is related to your being a witch, are you?” He was looking back and forth between her and his crispy phone.
Cayden bit the inside of her lip. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Gran would say. “Yes, Clint, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Okay, let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you do have some kind of weird relationship with electricity. That’s possible, I guess. What would that have to do with witches? Don’t they cast spells and whatnot?”
“Some ‘cast spells and whatnot.’ There are different types of witches. Gran’s a spell witch. She gave me the backpack.” She pointed to where it lay at Dr. Seuss’s feet. “It has TARDIS-like properties, remember? My mother was a charm witch. I recently learned there are male witches who possess the power of persuasion, although it’s very rare for
men to possess magic.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you think this—” he waved his phone at her “—is a family thing?”
“It is a family thing. I told you that on the drive to East Granby.”
“Right. So what kind of witch are you?”
The way he was putting his questions wasn’t lost on her. “We’re not certain what type of witch I am, exactly what the nature of my power is.”
“I see.”
Cayden’s blood had more than cooled. “No, you don’t, and I can’t make you. Rather, I don’t intend to. I’m not promising anything, mind you. I am getting fed up with your incredulity, though. So I’ll make you a deal. I won’t bring it up again. Just don’t ever say I didn’t warn you.”
“You need to work on your negotiating skills. Looks to me like the second deal this week I nailed.”
“Appearances can be deceiving, Clint. I thought you were learning that.” She sat at her desk. “Regarding the tea, you’ll need to follow these instructions precisely in order to get the full benefits and avoid unpleasant side effects.”
She hadn’t realized he’d followed her until he said, “Side effects?”
Forcibly defying the effect of his nearness, she replied, “All medications, including homeopathic, have possible side effects.” She handed him the card.
“Looks easy. No hocus-pocus to it at all.”
“Don’t we have an agreement not to discuss that?”
“Hey, I didn’t say I wouldn’t mention it.” He gave her his charming smile.
She didn’t return it. “I won’t be ridiculed in my own home.”
His eyes lost their sparkle. “Hey, just teasing. No insult intended.”
“And where exactly is the line between teasing and ridicule?” She rolled back the antique French chair she’d fitted with coasters and stood up. “Let me know how it works for you sometime.” She handed him the brocade bag. “You may keep this as long as you like. I’ll be back at HandiMart eventually.” She removed Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, Volume Two from the bookshelf.
“Wait, Cayden. I… God, when did I get so bad at this? Darcy sure gave me plenty of practice.” He scrubbed his face with his free hand. “Look, I still want to take you out. I mean, if you want to, which of course you don’t now that I’ve… Oh, hell.” He turned away.
The Darcy comment stung. “I never figured you for a quitter, Clint MacAllen.”
She reached out and touched his arm. His thick muscle bunched through the thin fiber of his shirt. Her blood zinged from cool to overheated.
Her desire was reflected in his sea-gray-green eyes when he turned back to her. The air between them was as charged as their kiss had been, and they were no longer even touching. The way he was looking at her, she was sure he was going to kiss her again.
A raucous squawk from above startled them both. “No kiss.”
“That’s not yours to decide.” She really needed to have a talk with that bird.
For better or worse, though, it had broken the tension.
Between fits of laughter, Clint said, “He is great! With timing like that, I’m tempted to believe he understands the words.” He stopped laughing and looked at her. “You knew what you were saying, though. Does it mean you’ll go out with me? I’m no quitter, Cayden Sinclair.”
She nodded, neither trusting her voice nor her ability to refrain from telling him that patronizing Nevermore wasn’t a good idea. Since he wouldn’t believe her anyway, he might as well find out for himself. Her lips curled up.
“Really? Great! How do I get hold of you? You said you don’t have a cell phone because…” He paused. “You do have a land-line, right?”
“Sort of.”
“‘Sort of?’”
He was treading carefully now. Being a fast learner was good, being gun-shy wasn’t. Darcy damage. She’d have to work on that, at least take it easier on him than she had been.
“Outgoing calls only. It took a great deal of grounding and work-arounds to even come up with that.”
“So no internet or e-mail or texting, either?”
“Internet, yes. That’s what the rabbit ears are for. I’m usually able to persuade it to cooperate. It’s terribly unreliable, though. I employ a host to handle the studio’s web page and an answering service for the calls. It would be best if you gave me your information so I can contact you. That’s how I manage it with the students.”
“Okay, sure. Hand me one of those cards. I’ll write it up for you in the unlikely case you’re not feeding me a line to get me out of your apartment.” His printing was neat and bold. “So, I guess this is goodbye. Unless you want to ignore the bird and kiss me again. Phone’s already dead.” He wouldn’t quite look at her, and his voice had lost its easy tone. His smile was more shy than charming, more sincere than confident, but hopeful, nonetheless. And absolutely irresistible.
She had to reach high to grasp his collar. He took the hint and met her halfway. Fast learner, indeed. It began sweet and slow, not as intense as the first kiss, more of a warm promise than a heated charge, until sweet and slow built up to strong and urgent, until light bulbs started popping in the hall. She drew back and pushed him out the door, then locked and leaned against it, trying to catch her breath. She listened to his steps slowly retreating. Had he heard or noticed the light bulbs? She hoped the tea—
“Wait!” She unlocked the door, flung it open, called down the hall. “Your stuff!”
Her heart echoed the steady solid thumping of him running back up the stairs, stuttering on the landing with his footsteps. She grabbed the book and the bag and returned to the doorway at the same time he arrived.
If Clint appeared flushed, he could blame it on running up the stairs. Her excuse wasn’t so innocent.
“I’m sorry, I forgot—”
“I guess we—”
They both laughed.
Without another word, she handed him both items and closed the door in his face. She leaned against it again. Control? Definitely still a work in progress.
Walking away from Cayden the second time was somewhat easier, a lot easier than climbing the stairs back to her apartment had been anyway, what with the steel beam she’d put in his pocket with that goodbye kiss. He hadn’t expected her to kiss him, or how mind-blowing kissing her would be, period. She was just so damn hot and juicy. He would have gone on kissing her all day if it had been up to him. Good thing it hadn’t been. He needed to get his head on straight.
Her scent fading from his nose would help with that. The headache he smelled coming on wouldn’t. He hefted the antique bag she’d given him and squeezed the priceless volume he’d tucked under his arm with equal parts hope and trepidation. He had tea for his headaches and a book for his insomnia, but what in the name of God would it take to survive Cayden Sinclair?
If he found her so intensely attractive that watching her prepare tea had made him hard enough to pound nails, a state that had been damn difficult to hide when she came back in with the tray and pretty cups, it wasn’t a stretch to believe coincidences like his truck dying and his phone frying would be drawn to her. Right? Or was her particular brand of madness contagious? She always sounded completely reasonable, no matter what kind of crazy talk she was making. Did all of the insane appear relatively rational until you actually listened to what they said?
The way he saw it, there was only one true concern: the likelihood she was going to take him down the rabbit hole right along with her.
On the other hand, he hardly needed to worry yet. Even if she had kissed him, it didn’t guarantee she would call. He’d learned that back in college. She’d already provided a two-way excuse. Bizarre and brilliant, just like her.
The heavy building door slammed shut behind him. His truck was exactly how he’d left it, hubcaps a
nd all. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he spotted the massive bird bomb on the driver’s side of the windshield. The winged menace must have eaten something red that hadn’t wholly agreed with its digestive system. The stain was suspiciously similar to the one Darcy had ended up wearing after bitching Cayden out. Hadn’t Cayden mentioned raspberries when she was talking to her crow? That would certainly account for the color-enhanced splatter on his windshield. He’d read somewhere that birds could be both protective and jealous of their owners. A caw-caw lured him into a glance up at Cayden’s window. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn the damn bird was laughing at him.
Chapter Eight
Switchblade Symphony’s “Witches” echoed through The Night Crawler’s aging speaker system. Cayden doubted Clint had ever heard the song before or had caught the title. He didn’t stick out so much here as he was just too wholesomely handsome to blend well with the crypt/dungeon atmosphere and patrons of the club. She took a sip of her cocktail and studied him across the rough wooden high top. He was taking a long pull from his Sam Adams, looking vaguely uneasy. The black T-shirt he wore was silk. It caressed his muscular shoulders and arms rather than hugging them. His jeans were snug, black, and definitely new.
Should she be flattered he’d bought new clothes for a date with her, or suspicious he was trying to appear to be something he wasn’t? The outfit wasn’t poser level; it could be worn almost anywhere. She didn’t think he would wear it while out with his friends, though, or on a date with Barbie, either.
Had he rushed out shopping after ransacking his closet in quiet desperation, as she had? Her effort had paid off, if she’d read his body language correctly when she opened her apartment door tonight. She’d already owned the elbow-length black lace fingerless gloves and super-long garter-lace ruffle scarf, but the black-trimmed emerald green corset and matching satin mini-skirt beneath a layer of black lace had been a real find, along with the green satin open-toe five-inch stilettos, which had cost her three weeks’ HandiMart pay. That purchase hadn’t been much of a decision. Having tried them on, she could hardly be expected to live without them. They were, after all, an investment of sorts.
