by Ann Macela
“I didn’t find anything new, either,” Morgan said with a shake of her head. “Mother was no help. Of course I couldn’t tell her exactly why I was asking. There’s another good source, however, an old witch called Mother Higgins who lives in LaGrange. Before Daria met Bent, she told Mother that all three of us would be finding our soul mates soon. Unfortunately she’s in Las Vegas for a week playing Texas Hold’Em. God help those poor gamblers who think she’s simply a sweet little old lady. I’ll try to find her next week. Maybe she knows more. After that, we’ll have to ask for an interlibrary loan or go to the really large holdings ourselves.”
“I’m hoping we won’t have to go that far. The last thing we need is for someone to discover our … predicament in the middle of the debates. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”
Her eyes grew wide, and she shook her head. “No, no, no. And not a word to Ed, either.”
“How’s your magic center been? Mine’s quiet.” The words were no more out of his mouth than a razor-edged pain hit his solar plexus and made him gasp.
“Oh! Oh, damn!” she said at the same time, pressed both hands to her stomach, and doubled over.
The ache lessened to a dull thumping in time with his heartbeat, and he went to her side. “Are you all right?”
“I-I think so.” Her face pale, she straightened slowly, but wobbled a little.
He took her arm. “Maybe you should sit down.”
She glanced up at him, down at his hand, and back to his eyes. “Let go.”
“I’m simply trying to help you. You looked faint.” What did she think he was doing, accosting her? He released her.
“No. That’s not my point. I’m all right. Are you hurting?”
“Yes. Not like from the first strike, though.”
She held out her left hand. “Take it and tell me what happens when we touch.”
Mystified, he put his right hand in hers. The pain went away. “I’ll be damned.”
He let go, and the pain returned. “You, too?”
“Yes. The SMI is playing with us.”
“We were fine until a moment ago—when we mentioned our centers.” He grimaced, took her hand again. “The damn thing must spy on us. This is unconscionable!”
She raised their joined hands. “What do we do now? We can’t hold on to each other all the time. I can handle the torture when it’s mild, not a hard blow like that. What can we do to get the imperative to stop or at a minimum to reduce its attacks?”
“Let’s go back to my original question. My center was quiet all week—still a little smug, but quiet.”
“Mine was also, although it hummed a few times. If I thought of you or that kiss, it radiated … I’m not sure what I’d call it—happiness? Certainly a sense of pleasantness and well-being.”
He reviewed the week in his head. Whenever he thought of her, and especially of kissing her, he experienced more than a simple pleasantness. He’d hardened like granite. Rather than divulge his reaction, he simply said, “Me, too.”
They stared at each other. So close, he thought, they were so close, he could see himself reflected in her leaf-green eyes. So close, he could fill his lungs with her spicy floral scent. So close, he could rub his thumb over her soft hand. So close, if he bent down …
“I have an idea,” he murmured, wondering only briefly about the origin of his notion. The world had narrowed down to him and her, and suddenly nothing else mattered.
She looked at his lips and back to his eyes. “What?”
“If last week’s kiss made the imperative leave us alone, what would happen if we tried it again? Maybe some respite for the next few days?”
“You think …?” Her eyebrows rose, her eyes widened, and she licked her lips.
“It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?” he asked, stifling a groan when her little pink tongue moved across her bottom lip and left it glistening.
“I guess …”
Although she didn’t look convinced, he’d take her answer as a yes. The opportunity was—somehow—too great to pass up. Eyes slightly open, he touched his lips lightly to hers, saw her eyelids drift shut, and felt her mouth open. Closing his eyes, he ran his tongue over her lower lip to taste—mmmm, good—then dipped it in and met hers.
And the earth moved.
And the building swayed.
He had trouble maintaining his balance when his equilibrium failed and lava-hot fire flashed through him. The only thing in the universe keeping him upright was her, and he held on tight to her hand.
Searching for steadier ground, he took the kiss deep, right down to bedrock. She tasted like ambrosia, but it wasn’t enough. The floor under him was still shaky. He needed a firmer hold.
He spread his legs and slid his left arm around her waist. Splaying his hand across her back, he pulled her into his body. As he did, a low hum surrounded them and pulsed to the beat of his heart. Ah, that was better, and better still when she pushed his open coat aside, ran her right hand inside it, and clutched the back of his shirt.
She’s yours. The words reverberated in his head. You’re hers.
Then she kissed him back, and a tremor more cataclysmic than the first struck.
She had to be caught up in the same turmoil because she let go of his hand and shoved her own past his coat to join its mate behind him.
Threading his fingers through her thick hair, he cradled her head and settled her more firmly against him. Good, an even better anchor.
Together they’d withstand the seismic upheaval.
He tightened his arms. She did the same. Her hands on his back kneaded his muscles. Oh, God, how had he ever gone this long, done without her embrace—so sweet, so true, so wonderful?
She was pliant, soft against his rigid body. What would she feel like …? He had to find out.
She whimpered when he loosened his arms, and she hummed when he slipped his right hand from her hair to her shoulder to her arm. As if she could read his mind, she pulled her left hand out from his coat and rubbed it up his chest and around his neck. The shift in position cleared his way to his objective.
Carefully, inch by inch, he tugged her jacket to the side until he could reach inside it. He let his hand linger on her waist for a moment before bringing it up her rib cage to under her breast. He could feel her heart thudding. His beat matched hers.
He softened their kiss and slowly raised his hand to cover her breast. The dress material was thin, and he could feel the outline of her bra and her tight nipple pushing against his palm. Oh, so lovely. Worth taking a moment to savor the softness and the weight.
She went still, drew back until her lips were barely touching his. She seemed to be waiting for something.
For him.
He fondled; she sighed. He kneaded; she moaned.
When he rubbed her nipple with his thumb, she pulled his head down to her and captured his mouth, pressing her hips into him at the same time.
Right against his arousal. Oh, yeah. Right where she was supposed to be.
He didn’t question that certainty, but gave himself over to the sheer pleasure of her mouth, her body, of her.
Gloriana held on tight. She couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t touch him or be touched enough. His hand on her breast was sending lightning bolts of excitement through her, the vibrating hum was making her skin tingle, and she could feel her bones melting. Her foggy brain didn’t help. She wasn’t even sure she was breathing.
She did know exactly how exquisite it felt to be holding each other, to stroke his muscles while they moved beneath her hand, to rub his body with hers, to be engulfed by his scent, enthralled with his taste, ensorcelled by the man himself. It was magic of the highest kind.
Slowly, slowly, they ended the kiss. Gradually they let each other go. Gloriana couldn’t tell who stepped back first, but when they were no longer touching, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from the combination of pleasure and sorrow lodged in her chest. All s
he could do was to press her fist to her center.
“Are you all right?” Forscher asked, his voice low and raspy as he rubbed his own chest.
Hers was no better when she answered, “I think so. That kiss was worse than the first, wasn’t it? More … more …”
“Yes. More everything. How’s your center? Does it hurt?”
“No, not exactly. My description makes no sense, even to me. It feels both full and empty, all at the same time.”
“Mine’s not hurting. It’s not right, either—I think it matches your description.” He held out his hand. “Let’s see where we stand.”
She laid her hand in his, observed the result. “My center’s humming.”
“Mine’s smug again.” He released her, put his hands on his hips, looked down at the floor, and shook his head. “Damn.”
She forced her mind into gear and was relieved to note that her bones had solidified and she could stand without trembling. “Look, maybe that did what we wanted it to. Maybe—”
A pounding on the door to the suite interrupted her.
“What the hell?” Forscher stalked to the door and pulled it wide open.
There was nobody there.
He stuck his head out and looked up and down the hall. A piece of paper was stuck to the door, and he pulled it off. He stared at it for a moment, then gazed over at the door to her suite directly across from his. Disappearing for a moment, he returned with another sheet, a companion to the first. “You need to see this.”
“What is it?” Gloriana asked. He handed her one of the sheets. The dark red laser-printed letters leapt off the page.
Stop Destroying Magic!!!
Accept the Truth!!!
End the Debates Now!!!
Or You’ll Be Sorry!!!
“Mine’s identical,” Forscher said.
“But which side is behind them? The message could be taken either way. The truth could be the formula and the ‘new’ casting method or the old one we’re all used to.”
“Good question. I wonder who else received one.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial. “Ed, this is Marcus. Some flyers were stuck on our doors … Yes, that’s right… She’s here with me … That’s what they say.”
He was silent for a minute, and Gloriana could hear Ed’s voice, only not make out the words. Before she could ask Forscher to put his phone on broadcast, he said good night and hung up.
“Ed said he received one of them, too, also stuck on his door and delivered by a door pounder. He’s with John and Bill at the moment. The flyers were posted in some public areas also, but no one saw who did it. The Swords will check the security tapes, of course.”
“What are we supposed to do for the immediate future of the debates?”
“Stay on schedule, according to Ed. He and John are taking the threat seriously, although it could be a prank—or a simple way to stir people up.”
Gloriana frowned. Exactly what they didn’t want—more aggravation. “There’s nothing we can do about these idiots ourselves. What about our personal problem? Did we accomplish what we hoped for? My center’s quiet. All I can suggest is to see how the week goes and continue our research.”
“I don’t have another suggestion. When are you going to see the old witch?”
“I’ll call her on Monday. Is there a specific question you want me to ask her?”
“Yes. See if she knows why there’s so little information about soul-mate rejections.”
Her nerves still jangled from their kiss and the abrupt interruption, and she needed some time to herself to get over both of those events. She nodded agreement and turned to the door. “I’ll say good night, then.”
“Wait. Let me see something first.” He opened the door, stepped out into the hall, and looked both ways.
She followed. The hall was empty.
“Do me a favor,” he asked when she used her key card on her own door. “Let me check out your suite.”
“Is that really necessary? Do you think someone has gotten in? The threat’s that serious?”
He frowned, looked uncomfortable. “Simply humor me, okay?”
She stopped herself from smiling. Two kisses and he decided he had to protect her? She opened the door and waved him in. “Go right ahead.”
She stood in the doorway while he went through the rooms and walked back to her. “All clear. Ed wants to meet us at seven for breakfast. When’s your flight tomorrow?” he asked.
“Eleven.”
“I’m on the same flight. I’ll see you at breakfast. Good night.”
She closed the door after him and looked through the peephole. He was still standing there. She locked the dead bolt and the security chain with two loud clicks. When she looked again, she saw only his closing door. The man was definitely in protection mode.
Although he had checked out her suite, she felt spooked enough to go through the rooms—and the closets—again. No sign of disturbance appeared, and she breathed an absurd sigh of relief.
She wasn’t going to worry about the prank, she thought while she washed her face. The real question concerned her soul mate. Her center was quiet, but it should be.
That kiss! Talk about an exhausting experience! Considerably more powerful than the first. She shivered as she remembered the feel of his hand on her breast. She’d read enough books with graphic kissing and love scenes to think she knew what to expect. Wow, had she been wrong! She could still feel the effects in every one of her female body parts.
She climbed into bed determined to blank her mind so she could sleep peacefully. It wasn’t easy.
It also didn’t work, she decided when she packed the next morning. Oh, she’d gotten to sleep all right—where her subconscious took over. She woke with impressions of dreams of children and him. Her body tingled and ached from the way the dream Marcus touched her.
Wait a minute. Marcus? She’d always thought of him as Forscher. Suddenly he was Marcus? Oh, God, she needed to call him by his last name. Somehow that was essential if they were going to convince the imperative they weren’t, couldn’t be, mates.
Her center gave a little flutter, but subsided. She had no idea what that meant, and she had no time to worry. She had to meet Ed and Mar—no, Forscher for breakfast.
Marcus eyed Morgan sitting across the aisle from him on the plane home. She was reading what looked like a scholarly journal and writing a note in the margin. When she tapped her lip with her pen, he almost groaned when his memory of her taste came back to him in a rush.
He glanced down at his computer where he was proofing—or attempting to proof—the article he had completed yesterday. It looked like gibberish to him. Who was he kidding about working? He wasn’t concentrating worth a damn. He saved the article and shut down his machine.
Tilting his seat back, he closed his eyes. Lord only knew, he needed sleep. Last night’s erotic dreams had woken him several times, and lying awake had not been much better. His mind continued to replay that kiss. And remember the bliss he found in her arms.
No woman had ever affected him like that with what should have been a simple kiss. Was all that the SMI’s doing? How much of it was the woman herself? He had to admit, if she weren’t a practitioner, he’d still be attracted to her—and actively working to get her into his bed.
She was smart—not merely intelligent about her profession, but her talent and magic itself. He could understand now why she brought up the larger picture about spell-casting; he hadn’t looked beyond his own equation. She had good ideas and questions for the debates. She was fun to be with. She certainly had a pointed wit. F-Squared or Cubed, indeed.
Their kisses left him breathless and wanting more, and more …
No, stop this line of thought.
He should think about the prank. Who could be behind it? Ed had no real news to impart at breakfast. The security cameras caught a couple of people, men, from their estimated heights, in gray robes with raised hoods putting up the poster
s, pounding on doors and running for the stairs. The robes came from the training rooms in the basements, and everyone had access to those.
Nothing short of a full search would uncover who wrote and printed the flyers. Since the Denver HeatherRidge, like its sisters across the country, was a combination of individually owned condos and a hotel, it would be difficult, if not impossible to search all the rooms, invading the privacy and property of others, without hard proof.
Who might be willing to go to such lengths to discourage discussion of his formula? He had no clue what went on among the Horners and THA members or who the major players were, except for Walcott. The Traddies were certainly against change, period, but how reckless were they?
As for his fellow mathematicians? Prick was milking the situation for every ounce from which to take credit. By stirring up opposition, he might think he would make himself more important, more prominent. Brubaker? No, not Brubaker, who blabbered on in “math speak” until he bored everybody, his colleagues included, to death. Dortman had written that rabid note at the first debate, and he hadn’t made a peep at the second. He wouldn’t make a move without Prick’s okay, either.
Nobody else came to mind. Nobody of any substance. All he could do was keep his eyes and ears open and let the Swords do their job, as Ed suggested.
After all, it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to think about. Especially about the woman sitting not four feet from him. What was he going to do about her—his supposed soul mate? He still didn’t want to believe the imperative. Why didn’t the phenomenon leave him alone? He, who had sworn as a teenager never to go down the soul-mate path. He, who had borne the brunt of … No, better not rehash the past.
What counted were the present and the future. He’d made a good life for himself, full of success and accomplishment. He enjoyed his academic work, and his career writing science-fiction allowed him other outlets for his creativity. He could look forward to many productive and satisfying years.
