by Linda Barlow
She wondered why he was so down on psychics. Many people were skeptical, but Daniel seemed to carry skepticism to an extreme. Something about the subject made him angry, almost fanatical. She disliked fanaticism of any kind.
But in spite of this, she couldn't exactly say she disliked Daniel. Not after that unexpectedly affable laugh of his. And there was the hotness factor to consider. He made unruly images of naked, entwined limbs and beds with rumpled sheets flash through her mind.
She flushed slightly. He was the first man she'd thought of that way since Arthur's death.
Once again, the memory of Arthur brought a sharp pang. She pictured the cheerful, good-natured face of the only man she'd ever loved—his chestnut hair, his warm brown eyes—and compared it with the dark, intense features of Daniel Haggarty. The two men couldn't be more different. "Oh, Arthur," she said out loud, "I miss you so much."
"Conversing with the spirit world?" said a sardonic voice at the bottom of the stairs.
Damn. Kate stepped down the final few stairs into the dingy, badly lit lobby of the old building. D. B. Haggarty was lounging on a bench under the mailboxes, his long legs stretched out in front of him, blocking the exit, his dark windbreaker open down the front and his hands tucked into its pockets.
"Did you think I'd gone off and left you? Impossible. Didn't you read your own cards tonight? I'm your fate."
"So far, you've done almost as much fortune-telling tonight as I have. I'm beginning to wonder if you're really the skeptic you claim to be."
He took his time about unstretching his legs and rising to his feet. He proved to be several inches taller than she was, and she was tall. She rarely had to look up to see a man's face. She tried to discount the pleasure this gave her. Ever since junior high school, when none of the boys had wanted to dance with her because she could rest her chin on the tops of their heads, Kate had appreciated tall males.
"I'm a skeptic all right," he assured her, his voice hardening. "I'm doing my best to rid the world of the idiocy you were spouting up there this evening."
"Yes, yes, I know. Don't keep scowling at me, please. It’s aggressive and not in the least appealing."
Again he laughed. She liked the way it made his face change. He looked almost boyish, and his dark blue eyes sparkled. "Not the right approach with you, huh? Works with some women; you’d be surprised. But hey. I can be a gentleman if I really try."
"I’d prefer a gentleman to a self-styled witch-hunter."
"One gentleman, coming up." He bowed in a formal manner like someone at a Regency ball. "May I see you home, my lady?"
His arrogance irritated her, but it wasn't going to be easy to resist his charm. She curtsied with equal formality, saying, "thank you kindly, sir, but I can see myself home."
As she moved to step past him into the cool September night, D. B. Haggarty reached out, took her hand, and placed it on his arm. "Allow me, please. My carriage is waiting right outside."
Rapidly she considered her options. Struggling? Acting indignant? Treating his persistence as a joke? Or allowing the sensations his nearness engendered to sweep her away without protest?
"You're offering me a ride? How do you know I don't have my own—"she smiled "—equipage?"
"I did my research. It seems you came with your astrologer friend, but he has acquired another companion for the evening. Since I’m being strictly a gentleman, I’d better confess that I'm the one who introduced him to the lovely Marissa."
It figured. She threw him another dazzling smile and left her hand on his arm. As she spoke, she used her free hand to zip up her jacket and adjust the white silk scarf around her neck as nonchalantly as possible. When she had settled it to her satisfaction, she allowed her eyes to take his again. "Well-played. That luxury car at the curb is yours, I presume? Very nice, but I don’t accept rides with strangers."
"A sensible policy, but how can I be a stranger to you when you’ve looked into my palm and analyzed my character?" He waited a beat before adding, "You’ll be safe with me, I promise."
"You say that now, but you’ve already made that tiny little threat about burning me at the stake. Tell me, do I get a trial first? I can't wait to hear all the evidence against me."
His eyes glowed as he answered, "You're entitled to a chance to bewitch me into silence."
"Aren't you afraid my power might prove too much for you?"
"Nope," he said with astonishing confidence. "I doubt if your power—or that of your mother—will stand up to my scrutiny."
"Wait, what do you know about my mother?" She dropped his arm and retreated a step. She had been enjoying flirting with him, but the reference to her mother snapped her back to cold reality. The last thing she wanted was to have her mother exposed to a cable TV/web crusader's scrutiny. Ever since that debacle on a radio talk show a few years back when Iris Carter had announced to an audience of thousands that she was a female reincarnation of the Druidic priest who had come to be known in legend as Merlin, Kate had been careful to protect her flaky mother from the press.
"I know a good deal about her. I've been doing research for a program I'm planning on famous American mediums of the past fifty years. Your mother, naturally, is one of my subjects."
"Oh, no," Kate moaned.
"I've seen pictures of her taken when she was younger. The resemblance between the two of you is striking. I knew she lived in a suburb of Boston, and I remembered reading somewhere that she had a daughter named Kate. But I had to stare at you for a while before I made the connection."
Well, that explained his odd behavior and the fact that he knew her birth name.
"None of my research ever turned you up as a successor to her, though. You’re barely even mentioned. I didn’t know she had a psychic daughter."
His tone had put the verbal equivalent of air quotes around the word "psychic," but his misconceptions about her didn't alarm Kate anywhere near as much as his newly revealed intentions toward her mother. He couldn't put Iris on TV. Or the internet. Although she had never actually seen Facts and Fantasies, the program he produced, she had heard enough about it to understand how devastating it could be. D. B. Haggarty and his interviewers would make a laughingstock of her mother, even though she was not a fraud. Kate was convinced of the validity of her mother's powers, but she knew from experience that most people were not so willing to believe. They preferred to think Iris Carter was some sort of madwoman.
"My mother doesn't do interviews. She's getting on in years, and anyway, she's retired." She challenged him with her eyes as she added, "As for my being her successor, that's absurd. I can’t do what she does."
"If that's true, you, at least, have nothing to fear from me."
But his revelation had rattled her. "Wait, let me get this straight. So it's not actually me, but my mother you’re interested in? The reason you approached me was to try to gather more information about her?"
"No." He shook his head vigorously. "I was invited to the party this evening by Stephanie, the hostess, who's a friend of mine. Meeting you was pure serendipity." He had dropped the sardonic tone he had used when referring to her mom. For perhaps the first time this evening, he sounded serious, even earnest: "It is you I’m interested in. Sorry if the reference to my research on your mother upset you, but the truth is, I'm really not thinking about Facts and Fantasies right now." He reached out and took her hand lightly in his. He was wearing driving gloves, but she could the warmth of his fingers right through the thin leather. He nodded toward his waiting car. "Will you come? I’d like to see you home."
When she hesitated, he added, "Please don’t tell me you’d prefer to ride your broomstick on such a windy night?"
She smiled. She really ought to clear up this misunderstanding now. She ought to tell him that in spite of her mother’s profession, she was not a psychic, and that the closest she had ever come to dabbling in witchcraft was the role she was currently rehearsing at New Cambridge Rep. She ought to explain to him about Graham's
psychic friend, whom she'd been replacing this evening. She ought not to get into that car with him.
But the magnetism in his eyes, combined with the incendiary pressure of his fingers on hers, scuttled her reason. So, instead of being sensible, she said, "I wasn't looking forward to searching for a taxi. It’s not as if they’re plentiful around here at this time of night."
"You would have conjured up a taxi easily. Skeptic though I am, I feel as if you've put a spell on me."
"And I feel as if I'm going to get burned."
He leaned closer and lowered his head. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her lips. He smelled delightful: fresh, spicy, and masculine. Her eyes drifted closed, and tingles shot through her body. Was he going to kiss her? An excitement she hadn't felt in years took hold of her. One of his arms slid around her shoulders as he closed the distance between them.
"Not burned," he murmured, his lips almost touching hers. She could feel his warmth. His sweet breath caressed her lips, making them soften as if ready to welcome him. "Singed a little, maybe. Heated, melted, fired up—"
A nameless anxiety shot through her at his words. She turned her face away before his mouth could take hers. What was she doing? He was a stranger. "Please, Daniel. I don't even know you."
"That can be remedied." He withdrew the threatened kiss and drew her gently in the direction of the car. "Come."
What the hell. It had been too long since she had last had an adventure of any kind. She went.
Chapter 3
Daniel's fingers remained locked on hers as they walked to the low-slung car. The night air was unusually crisp and cold for September, and the sidewalk shone crystalline in the light from the old-fashioned streetlamps.
When he handed her into the sporty car, she stretched in the luxury of the soft seat, enjoying the smooth feel and the faint leathery scent. Sweet, she thought as he went around and let himself into the driver's seat. She didn’t know a great deal about cars, but she thought it might be a Porsche. Graham drove a clattery old Honda.
"Where do you live?" he asked as he put the car in gear and glided away from the curb.
"In Salem, of course. Where else?"
"I don't know. Hogwarts?"
She laughed, pulling off her scarf and shaking her long brown hair free. Daniel glanced sideways and stared; she could feel the touch of his eyes. "Across the river, actually, in Cambridge. I have a small house near the Somerville line. Do you know your way around Cambridge?"
"Yep."
It was not in front of her small house that Daniel Haggarty stopped his car ten minutes later, however; he parked at a local Turkish restaurant just off Mass. Ave. that was famous for its food, its festive atmosphere, and its belly dancers.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "There was hardly anything to eat at that party."
She was a little hungry, now that he mentioned it, and the restaurant was a favorite of hers. "Do you think they’re still serving?"
"This place stays open late. I suppose you're on a perpetual diet, like all the other women I know?"
For some reason she resented this reference to "all the other women." She imagined them lining up, waiting their turn in his bedroom. "No, as a matter of fact, I'm not on a diet, and I adore Turkish food." And she was out the door before he could come around to open it for her.
The restaurant was crowded despite the late hour, and people were getting up and dancing to the exotic twang of the Middle Eastern music provided by tabor drums, a violin, and an oud. Kate and Daniel sat in a dark corner across from the band, at a tiny table for two. He apologized when his long legs bumped hers under the table, but he didn't move them.
"What do you want? A full-course meal?" she asked him.
"How about a selection of appetizers?"
"Sounds good. There’s a good combo plate with eggplant salad, humus, cheese boreks and grapeleaf dolmas."
"Their humus is full of garlic," he warned.
"I don't mind if you don't."
His mouth curled. "Isn't garlic supposed to ward off evil spirits? I'll eat it to fortify myself."
"I'm a witch, Daniel, not a vampire."
"Vampires are all the rage, though, aren’t they? I’ve never understood why women are so into the idea of being attacked by some guy who wants to suck out all their blood." His eyes sought a spot on her throat, and Kate felt her pulse scampering there, as fast and uneven as static.
"I think it’s the thrill of being so desperately wanted and needed. And there’s a powerful erotic element involved, too, of course. Do you ever play computer games?"
He blinked at the apparent change of subject. "Sure. Do you?"
"Yup. Have you ever played Hunt the Night City? It’s my favorite. I play it with some old friends of mine from college."
"Is that a World of Warcraft sort of thing?"
"Similar, yes. It’s more of a futuristic dystopia than Warcraft, though. There are vampires, werewolves, witches, and other supernatural creatures."
"I haven’t tried that one." He gave her one of his more endearing smiles. "You’re a gamer as well as a witch? A serious gamer?"
"Serious enough. I’m pretty geeky, in some respects."
He looked impressed. "I honestly haven’t met many serious girl gamers. Most of the women I know are into cell phone games, not MMOs." He grinned at her. "Things are looking up. I don’t suppose you’re a football fan, are you?"
"Sorry. Basketball. Celtics forever."
"Well, that goes without saying. But no love for the Patriots?"
"None."
"The Red Sox? I’ll take you to a Celtics game if you’ll go to Fenway Park with me sometime."
Whoa, she thought, aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves? Wasn’t baseball almost over for the season? "I like baseball, but isn’t this football season? There’s no way you’d ever get me to a Patriots game. Why anybody would freeze their butt in an outdoor stadium during the cold weather to watch a bunch of grown men jump on each other all afternoon is beyond my comprehension."
"You do have a point." He glanced down at the menu. "Would you like some wine to go with the food?"
"I think I’ll have a beer, thanks."
"The lady likes beer, computer games, and professional sports. You certainly know the way to a man’s heart."
She screwed up her nose and laughed at him. "So beer-drinking sports fans don’t get burned at the stake?"
Daniel reached across the table and grasped her hand. "Kate," was all he said, but a dozen other messages came through, heating her flesh and softening her bones. She thought she understood why he had brought her to the restaurant. He was hungry for more than just food, but the time in the car together hadn't been long enough for him to ensure that she wouldn't slam her door in his face. He wanted to get to know her a little better so it wouldn't seem so abrupt when he made his move.
She was about to tell him straightforwardly that he might as well forget it. Attractive though she found him, she didn't jump into bed with men she had known only a couple of hours. She didn't jump into bed with men, period. There had been no one since Arthur had died.
But before she could say anything, the waiter appeared at their side, and Daniel dropped her hand to order. Moments later the band launched into a loud, rhythmic pounding as a voluptuous belly dancer made her appearance in the dimly-lit room. "Ah, I like this part," he said, shifting his gaze to the vision in crimson and gold veils and sequins who danced out among them, tinkling her tiny brass zils between her fingertips.
"Great for the abs."
There were two more belly dancers before the beer was downed and the tasty appetizers consumed. There was also a pleasant exchange of easy, companionable conversation. They found they had plenty of things to chat about. Daniel was charming, witty, and intelligent. In spite of his hostility toward her supposed profession, he gave every indication of being just as pleased with her as she was with him.
"So why do you hate all the myriad practitioners
of the occult?" she finally got up the nerve to ask.
"I told you: because they cheat people and prey on their gullible clients’ superstitions."
"Not all psychics are frauds. Some have genuine powers."
He snorted into what was left of his beer.
"No, really. Don't you at least believe in ESP?" She was dabbing up the last of the humus with a bit of pita bread, making sure she got every last bit of the tasty dip out of the dish. Daniel watched her with a smile, obviously enjoying her hearty appetite. "Surely you don't think science has solved all the mysteries of the workings of the human brain?" she added, licking her lips.
"No," he admitted. His eyes were on her mouth, and his voice sounded abstracted. He cleared his throat. "There are still some things we don't know about the brain, but I'm confident that sooner or later neuroscientists will answer all those questions. Some 'practitioners of the occult' are just a helluva lot cleverer than others."
"So you claim to be a strict rationalist? What I saw in your hand contradicts that."
"Don't start with that palmistry garbage again. I only let you do it because I wanted the pleasure of your fingers against my palm."
She flushed, remembering that pleasure. He moved one hand across the table, threatening to repeat it. When she folded both her hands in her lap, he laughed at her and changed the subject.
They proved to have quite a bit in common: They liked several of the same books and movies, they shared political opinions, and they both enjoyed outdoor activities. "You cross-country ski?" she said. "I love to cross-country ski. But I haven't done it in years." Arthur hadn't been particularly athletic, she recalled sadly.
"Whoever heard of a witch on skis?" he teased.
She decided to attack his profession for a change. "How come you're not on TV yourself, Haggarty? I'll bet it would give the ratings a boost if you roasted your victims yourself instead of making your underlings do it."
