by Ann Macela
“I like that idea,” John said. “If I have to maintain order, the farther apart the two groups are physically, the better. My staff in the auxiliary rooms said those audiences were rowdier.”
“How much rowdier?” Gloriana asked. She wasn’t looking forward to a repeat of the first debate.
“Mostly only loud comments or applause. A few catcalls, some cheers. Nothing beyond that. The Traddies and Fomsters gathered in separate rooms, and the chances of a fight were practically nil.”
“I’ll make a special appeal next time for those in the middle to tell us their views,” Ed said.
On that note, they adjourned. As she picked up her folder and her purse, Gloriana made the mistake she’d warned herself against. She looked across the table straight into Forscher’s icy blue eyes. His gaze became warm, then hot, and a corresponding warmth, then heat spread from her center to her fingers and toes—and pooled in her middle before descending ever so slowly to a spot between her legs.
She covered the spot with her portfolio in a reflex she didn’t remember making until she broke eye contact—with difficulty—and stepped back from the table. When she looked at him again, Forscher was on his feet and moving in her direction, his expression stark and predatory.
She kicked herself mentally to force her brain into gear and headed for the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “Good night.”
Ed and John both said good night and headed in different directions.
“I’ll escort you to your door,” Forscher said with such finality in his tone that she knew her protest would be futile.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
They walked to the elevators in silence. In the mezzanine lobby several Fomsters and Traddies were arguing while a black-robed Sword stood silently by the registration table. The belligerents called to them, but Forscher ignored the request to join the fray, and she followed his lead.
The elevator came, and they entered. Gloriana pushed the button for her floor and asked, “Which one are you on?”
“The same. I’m in 1217.”
“I’m in 1215.” She faced front and shot a quick glance at him. His body also faced the door, and he was looking straight at her. His gaze captured hers and held it. She felt a distinct falling sensation and wondered briefly if a bug in a carnivorous pitcher plant had the same experience when it went to its doom. He leaned toward her, slightly lowered his head. She was actually turning to him and raising hers—she couldn’t stop her body from moving—when the elevator halted and three people entered. The necessity to step back broke the spell.
Oh, my God, she thought as she retreated to the side and stared at the door, the button panel, the floor numbers display—anywhere except at him. Ignoring her and Forscher completely, the new passengers discussed a problem family member—something about inappropriate spell-casting.
Finally, they reached the twelfth floor and emerged into the hall while the three behind them chatted away. She wasn’t sure if the silence that fell when the door closed was helpful or not. With her mind in such a muddle and her body not obeying her commands, what could she say to him without making a fool of herself? Walking down the corridor, she didn’t look back, certainly didn’t make eye contact—she wasn’t going to get into that situation again. They came to her door, and she pulled the key card from her pocket. She was about to swipe it through the slot when his hand covered hers.
“We need to talk,” Forscher said in that low voice of his that vibrated through her like a wind through the treetops, leaving her nerves, like the leaves, quivering.
Gloriana took a deep breath and let it out. He obviously knew about their situation. Maybe they did need to get it all out into the open. She’d have to make sure she kept her distance—and control of her body.
“Yes,” was all she trusted herself to say. She pulled her hand from his and inserted the card.
He opened the door, and she walked in, thanking Ed silently for booking her a suite and glad she had left so many lights on. The last thing she needed with him here was a darkened room or a bed in plain view. Not that dim lights would set an intimate mood or that she meant to use a bed, but … oh, hell, she didn’t know what she meant.
Struggling to control his raging libido, Marcus followed her. Back in the dining room, when their eyes met, all he could think about was how she’d taste, how good she’d feel, how good he’d feel when they met skin to skin without the hindrance of clothing. No, he told himself, not when. Not even if. They weren’t going to do that. The last calamity he needed was to bond with her, to make her, in fact, his mate. He didn’t even want to imagine that intolerable situation.
He thought he’d regained power over himself after that, but when she’d stood up and prepared to leave, he had to, simply had to go with her, see her safely to her room. Which was ridiculous on the face of it; no danger lurked in the corridors of a HeatherRidge hotel.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, in the elevator, standing close enough to smell her, he’d almost pulled her into his arms. He had actually been leaning down to kiss her when those people entered and broke the spell.
The spell. Here he was, back to being enchanted, under the command of an outside entity. No, unacceptable. They had to talk this circumstance through, had to come to some accommodation with the damned imperative or the damned attraction—if that was truly all it was—or they’d never make it through the remaining debates. And he’d probably go stark raving insane from wanting her.
She placed her purse and folder on a side table, walked over to the chair and sofa grouping and stopped with the coffee table between them. She didn’t look him in the eye, only down at her clasped hands, and said, “Yes, we need to talk. How do we begin?”
“Let’s cut to the chase. It’s the soul-mate phenomenon and imperative we need to talk about. Do you concur?”
She sighed, grimaced. “Yes.”
“Are we attracted to each other? I am to you.”
She hesitated, looked a little angry, a little dismayed. He understood those feelings all too well. He breathed again when she finally admitted, “I am to you, too.”
“That raises the next question: Are we under the influence of the phenomenon? George tells me that I am, and he thinks you’re my mate—on no real evidence or proof, I might add.” He tossed his folder on the coffee table, took the two steps to the sofa, but didn’t sit. There was no way he could possibly make himself comfortable. Every muscle in his body was strung as tight as Samson’s leash when he was holding the dog back from running.
“Do you think so, too?”
He couldn’t tell from her flat tone what she thought. Best to state his opinion in the same manner. “I don’t honestly know. I seem to have the symptoms, again according to George. It could be simple attraction because I’ve been too busy to date for months and you’re a beautiful woman.”
She took a deep breath, and the movement drew his gaze first to her chest, then to her still clenched hands. She was obviously also tense. Her next words, however, brought his eyes back to her face. “My parents are saying we are, also with little evidence. My sister delineated the telltale signs—the itch and following pain in the magic center, the dreams, the, uh, reactions when in the vicinity of the other.” Her face flushed a delicate pink when she said the last words.
“I can’t come to any conclusion,” she continued. “Most of these responses could be normal male-female attraction, even though a witch isn’t supposed to feel it for anyone except her mate. The imperative could have its wires crossed. My biological clock could also be driving my reactions. It could be our hormones and age acting against us—the mating instinct, but the human one, not the practitioner. From everything I’ve ever heard about practitioner soul mates, that you and I could be … we’re … Oh, it seems absolutely impossible. We’re totally different.”
He felt a small bit of relief. Surely if they had come independently to the same conclusion, they could solve their problem. “I agree. We don’t
view or work magic the same—diametrically opposed to each other, in fact. I’m sure there are other differences like music, sports, politics, teaching methods, lifestyles, probably even our basic thought processes.”
“I like country-western music; You like jazz. I like football and basketball; You like …”
“Baseball. I’m more conservative politically.; You’re …”
“A yellow-dog Democrat. I’m an intuitive caster, and you …”
“Prefer a more structured approach. I like order and a minimalist approach in my home.”
“I’m all about clutter and chaos, but it is an orderly chaos. That we both have basenjis and are runners must be purely a coincidence,” she said with a wry smile. “My father puts great store in the dogs, and my mother, would you believe, in the way we look at each other.”
“Am I correct in stating that neither of us wants the other for a soul mate?” As the words came out of his mouth, a sharp pain sliced through his chest and would have brought him to his knees if they hadn’t been locked. He shook his head to clear his vision.
Gloriana grimaced and waved a hand at their problem. “I’m not against the concept. I have too many examples of its benefits in my own family. I have to admit, I’ve been expecting to meet mine since Daria and Clay have met theirs. However, I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with someone who’s a total opposite, with whom I have little in common. I’m not sure we can communicate or understand each other on the level soul mates seem to.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I do not believe in the old saying, ‘Opposites attract.’ That seems to me more like a recipe for disaster in a marriage. Even worse would be for either one of us to feel coerced into the mating.”
She finally looked at him, and the sadness in her eyes made her statement even more poignant.
“I don’t want a soul mate, period.” The words felt like ashes in his mouth, but he had to tell her the truth, make it clear he wasn’t the one for her under any circumstances.
“Ever?”
“Never. It’s nothing against you, believe me. It doesn’t matter why,” he added to forestall the questions he knew she’d ask.
She frowned at him for a long moment before asking, “So, given your determination and my feelings, what do we do? Where do we go from here?”
“The question to me is how to prove that we’re only attracted to each other and not ensnared by the phenomenon. That we aren’t coerced by the imperative. That we’re not, in fact, soul mates.”
“What if, despite the attraction, we really are, or the imperative thinks we are—which is the same thing, I guess. It’s not going to be easy to discourage. I’ve seen my brother and sister go through the process, and the SMI can be vicious when thwarted.”
“SMI?”
“That’s what Clay calls the soul-mate imperative.”
“Ah, right.” As he nodded, the ventilation system blew her scent his way, and he couldn’t stop from taking a step closer. He made himself take a step back. “If we are, then we come up with a plan. First, how do we tell if it’s simple attraction or the imperative?”
“According to the practitioner databases, there are only two ways to tell if you’re under the SMI influence. The first is to try to cast a spell on the other person, since mates can’t cast spells on each other except for healing or defense. The second is to try to make love, and if you’re not mates, you won’t be physically able to consummate the mating.”
She made a face. “The only spells I can cast on another person are healing ones, so if you had a headache and I healed it, my success would tell us nothing. I’m not willing to use the other method—that’s simply too dangerous. I assume you don’t have a fancy mathematical equation for a test.”
“No, I don’t. I never thought I’d need one. I can’t cast spells on a person at all. My talent involves manipulating mathematical formulas and equations—in my head, in the air, or on a surface. And that second method, no way.” He ignored the twinge from his center—and lower down. Mind over matter, he reminded his libido.
“You arrange symbols, work equations in the air?” She seemed incredulous.
“Sure, watch. Here is an example of Bertrand’s postulate, the details of which I won’t bore you with.” He pointed, and numbers and mathematical symbols floated in the air where they could both see them as though they were on a wall. “Here’s the proof.”
He pointed and waved, and the proof unfurled before them, like a computer screen scrolling. When he looked at Morgan, her eyes had become enormous.
“I can try out different variables by spell. Here’s the idea I’m working on in my latest article.” He cancelled the first display and put up his latest work.
“If I test it with these …” His proof spread downward. “If I change some values and recast the spell …” The figures and symbols changed, added some, and rearranged themselves. “It proves that no counterexample to my postulate is possible.”
“Or, more simply …” He ran through a couple of simple arithmetic and algebraic problems for her. Again numbers and letters shifted, multiplied and divided themselves. He canceled the display. “That’s the way I work.”
“That’s not a simple illusion spell, is it?”
“No, in fact, I layer spells within spells. Think of them as ‘what if’ statements. If this, then that, but if this other, then that other. Working out the proper combinations and logical progressions can be quite tricky. Layering basic spells will be my next topic in my spell study. I had to start with the simplest equation first, of course.”
“Oh,” Morgan said, sounding somewhat stunned. She closed her eyes for a moment, rubbed her forehead, and, when she opened her eyes again, frowned at him. “Anyway, back to our primary topic. I’d never thought of the SMI until Daria found Bent, and Francie and Clay got together, and it’s been hard not to think of the possibility when I’m around them. I never envisioned needing a test, either.”
As it often did when he was thinking about a problem, the mathematical part of his mind conjured up several possible equations and solutions, but he didn’t voice or display them. Theory wouldn’t help them. They were faced with the need for a practical experiment, something that would yield concrete proof. “Maybe we need to approach our problem scientifically.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How?”
“How did your siblings know they had met their soul mates? Before the first mating, that is?”
She looked off into the distance for a few seconds before saying, “In both cases, they and their mates fit the norm—thought the same way, had the same interests, all that sameness. Business for Daria and Bent, computers and basketball for Francie and Clay.
“Daria said the physical attraction was very powerful. She didn’t believe in the SMI’s existence at first, didn’t even consider it a possibility when she first met Bent. The realization took a while to sink in, and by the time it did, she was in love with him. She was more worried about his reaction as a non-practitioner. Because he is not one of us and had no clue in the beginning and she was taken unawares, however, their story may not help us.
“As for Francie … she was resisting Clay for non-SMI reasons, but when they kissed, she said all the will to oppose him drained out of her. She described it like being possessed by an alien who had taken over her mind and her body. She couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together. She had no idea what was happening to her, but she couldn’t overcome it, no matter how hard she tried.”
“Maybe that’s our test.”
“What, to kiss?” Her big green eyes opened wide, and she backed up a step.
“Can you think of another?” He felt his center warm and wondered if a kiss was, in fact, a good idea. What other test did they have that would let them escape unscathed? He took two slow steps forward. He only had to reach out a hand to touch her.
Gloriana watched his approach warily. Her emotions and thoughts were rioting in all directions. Confusion over the S
MI—was it or wasn’t it at work, pushing them together? Hopelessness over her inability to understand what he had showed her about his magic, including how he did it—had he really put spells within spells?
She was awash in feelings. Sadness over the idea of being coupled with someone she couldn’t understand and who couldn’t understand her. Puzzlement over his statement about never wanting a soul mate—and a little sorrow for him, too. Indignation over his rejection of her—accompanied by recognition that he wasn’t really rejecting her, but being forced into a situation without his consent. Empathy over their predicament. Relief over bringing it all out in the open.
And excitement. Oh, yes, excitement and anticipation, centered in the middle of her body and making every cell in it come to attention.
She stared into his eyes, where his pupils had expanded so much she could see only a little bit of blue between them and the dark rims of his corneas. His gaze went from warm to hot to sizzling in a heartbeat.
Her blood heated in response; she could feel it rushing to sensitive places.
When he stopped six inches away, she had to raise her face to look at him directly. And that falling sensation came back and made her almost dizzy.
To brace herself, she put her hands on his lapels. She could feel his heat through his suit coat, and she could smell him—that woodsy-and-pure-male concoction she’d noticed at the first debate. It contributed to her vertigo, and she resisted the need to clutch for support.
He’d asked a question. What was it? Something about her thinking of another test? She needed to give him an answer. When she licked her suddenly dry lips, his gaze dropped to them, then returned to her eyes. Concentrate, Glori. Speak.
“No.” She had to push the word out of her throat.
“No?” What could have been disappointment flashed across his face.
