by Ann Macela
“Yes, it’s Saturday.” He shot a glance her way. “Do you have any plans for the evening?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.” She managed to keep her tone even, but she couldn’t help dropping her eyes. Her seemingly nonchalant answer didn’t fool him one bit, she knew, because of the way he smiled. He could probably read her like one of those books, see the emotions she was trying to hide: consternation that she had answered him truthfully and wariness about what he would say next. She tried to project a distant coolness to portray disinterest, but deep down lay an underlying excitement she couldn’t deny.
“The musical Wicked is playing downtown. Let’s see it and have a late dinner afterward.”
“I don’t know,” Francie said, sounding even to herself like a wimpy coward.
“I’m supposed to be sweeping you off your feet, remember? We have to make our relationship look good. What will Tamara think if I don’t follow up on tonight?”
“Oh, heavens, Tamara.” Francie’s shoulders slumped. Every time she turned around, she ran into the problem of deceiving her best friend. She knew exactly what Tamara would think: Francie had driven away the perfect man. She cast about for a valid reason to refuse him, but could come up with nothing. She had agreed to this scheme, after all. She gave a great sigh and took a step back. “All right, we’ll go to the play.”
“Good, I’ll pick you up at seven.”
They went back into the living room, where Clay shrugged into his coat and turned to her. He pulled one of his business cards out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the table by her purse. “Here’s my address and phone numbers if you need them.”
“You must show me how you managed the upload and the programming on your capture application,” she said, trying to think of anything but the man in front of her, trying not to stand too close, but attracted to him just the same.
As he looked into her eyes, Clay suddenly wanted to tell her everything—exactly how he had used his spells to create those programs and place them on the computers, how wizardry was an integral part of him, how he could show her the great magic between the two of them.
Wait a minute. Great magic? Explain himself? What was going on in his head? He certainly never told anyone about practitioners or their talents. No practitioner did. So, he gave her an honest, if misleading, answer.
“Magic,” he murmured as he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her closer. He dipped his head and kissed her.
He meant it to be a small, first-date kind of kiss, but her eyes closed just as he glimpsed a flame in the smoky brown. Then her mouth opened, and he was lost. She tasted of chocolate and herself as he explored her mouth, delving deeper. He couldn’t help it, his kiss became possessive, and he claimed her as gently as he could, while his body demanded full satisfaction, the relief to be found inside her. It was all he could do to keep his hands on her shoulders and not wrap his arms around her and pull her closer.
Magic, indeed, echoed in Francie’s mind before desire took over and the heat from his lips shot through her body. She had the distinct impression multicolored lights were sparkling on the backs of her eyelids.
Where had her resistance to him gone? She hadn’t meant to let this kiss happen, had forgotten the possibility in the computer demonstration and talk of their next date. But once his mouth touched hers, all her intentions, all her resolve, flew from her body. She raised a hand to his face and felt him shudder when she touched him. When he thrust deep, tasting all of her, she dueled with his tongue and heard him groan.
He kissed like the man he was—confident, expert, decisive, and at the same time charming, seductive, spell-binding. A kiss had never been like this before; she had never even imagined a kiss like this, one that caused her breasts to swell, her womb to ache, her whole being to demand more. It was . . . truly magical.
No, the last vestiges of her rational mind asserted themselves. It couldn’t be magical; it shouldn’t be this arousing. She shouldn’t be here like this. She couldn’t be succumbing again to the charms of a handsome man.
From deep in her mind she grasped for the power to resist. Forcing her body to go along wasn’t easy, but she managed to pull her hand from his face to his chest and push, a slight nudge, hardly any pressure, but all she could bring to bear.
He raised his mouth from hers immediately but kept his hands on her shoulders until she took a deep breath and stepped back. Separation helped her gain control again. When she looked him in the face, he seemed more stunned than angry or frustrated at her action.
“This isn’t part of the deal, Clay,” she said, shaking her head from side to side. “We’re only pretending to be involved. There’s enough deception and complication in this scheme as it is. Please don’t do that again.”
He took his own deep breath before nodding. “I’ll make you a deal, Francie.”
“What kind of deal?” she asked, telling herself to be ready for anything.
He drew her glasses from his coat pocket and held them out to her. As she took them, he looked her straight in the eyes. His voice was low and slightly hoarse. “When we’re alone together, no glasses, no camouflage, no artificial barriers. Only the truth. Deal?”
“What do I get in return?”
“The same, no camouflage, the truth.”
The glasses she didn’t care about, the camouflage must mean her usual clothing, but the truth? Yes, that was important. He had to understand she was not interested in anything except catching Kevin and protecting Tamara—and certainly not in a relationship with him. “Honesty is what I’m after, too. Deal.”
She would have said more, clarified the agreement, but before she could open her mouth, he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. About seven? Francie, I really had a good time, too.”
And he let himself out, giving her a wave as he walked down the stairs.
She shut the door, leaned against it for a minute until she was sure her suddenly wobbly legs would hold her, and, turning off the lights, stumbled into her bedroom. She went through her nighttime routine and fell into bed, exhausted.
What was the matter with her? Why had she let him kiss her? Why had she returned his kiss?
Replaying the kiss, she mumbled, “Magic, it’s got to be magic,” but she felt the anticipation—no, the yearning to see him again. The need—no, the craving to experience one of those kisses again.
She wondered where her resistance to him had gone, for it had vanished in his embrace as swiftly as a rabbit disappeared in a magician’s top hat.
She’d had to pull the determination to protest—even so feebly—from deep in her brain. To simply push on his chest, she’d had to do battle with an interior force she didn’t even know was in her.
What was the matter with her? She almost felt as if that force had taken control of her brain and her body.
Business, she kept repeating to herself, until her resolve was firmly back in place. It was strictly business. Clay was too much like Walt, too good-looking, too experienced, too charming. She was not going to be hurt by a man like that again, no matter how enchanting he was. She would not allow him to repeat that kiss. No more caresses, either. She had to be strong.
She was strong. She was twenty-eight-years-old strong, not nineteen. She had to think of him as an opponent on the basketball court. Play the game, watch out for the other guy’s sneaky moves, come out the victor, no matter what the score. She could, she would do that.
They had an agreement of sorts, which needed clarification, but they’d have the chance for that tomorrow night. Then she realized that he hadn’t agreed with her first statement about only pretending they were in a relationship and not kissing her again. She’d have to bring that up also.
Definitely the part about no more kisses.
All that stuff about magic? Sheer piffle. It simply did not compute.
She rubbed the itching spot beneath her breasts again—it had developed a slight prickle—and her last thought before she slipped into sleep was wonderi
ng what had bit her.
“Magic,” Clay said to himself as he lay in bed after the cold shower hadn’t worked worth a damn. “What’s between a man and a woman. That’s the true magic. All the rest is just dabbling.”
And the attraction between him and Francie was strong, stronger than he’d experienced with any other woman. The voice in his head at the restaurant had been right; this was no charade. He would be Francie’s lover.
The kiss had rocked him to his foundation, and he thought she had been likewise affected. But then she’d shaken her head at him and asked him not to do it again. He’d never had a woman respond like that, even after a kiss only half so potent. What was going on?
She was more wary than he’d expected. That was all right; it only made the challenge to have her greater. More fun. He just needed to take things slower. Damn, he’d like to get his hands on the bastard who drove her into those formless clothes, caused her to deny her beauty, made her distrust all other men. That had to be the explanation. She was no shrinking violet.
Mercy, what a body.
Holy hell, what a woman.
His thoughts totally negated the slight effect of the shower. Damn, how was he going to get to sleep? But he did, almost, until he remembered the way her eyes shone with intelligence and humor when they had talked so long over the meal, until he saw again the delight of her smile, the golden highlights in her hair, and heard the sound of her laughter. Oh, man, did he want to feel her body against his. No camouflage, no barriers.
The promise they had made each other, especially about telling each other the truth, stopped his fantasies for a moment. Tell her the truth? About being a practitioner? He’d thought about it just before their lips met.
Where did that idea come from? Practitioners never told nonpractitioners about their abilities to do magic. He’d never told any of his other lovers. Why should he tell this one?
But he hadn’t agreed not to kiss her, and his emotions and desire weren’t pretense, but true and real. Convincing her would be fun. He grinned into the darkness.
He turned over, punched the pillow, and tried to concentrate on the dullest computer motherboard diagrams he could think of. Eventually, he, too, slept, but the next morning his sternum was itching like mad.
CHAPTER THREE
A loud banging on her door pulled Francie out of a deep dream in which she and Clay were definitely alone, with no eyeglasses, no camouflage, and absolutely no artificial barriers between them. She fought with the sheet as she struggled to determine what the noise was all about and why Clay had vanished from her arms. Groaning, she opened her eyes and glanced over at the alarm clock.
Seven o’clock.
In the morning.
Saturday morning. Who on earth . . .?
Tamara. Of course, coming to check up on her date with Clay.
Francie hauled herself out of bed, threw on a robe, and staggered barefoot into the hall. “I’m coming,” she muttered as her tormentor beat on the door and also poked the doorbell to add the ding-dong to the din. At the front door, she peeked blearily out the peephole. Yep, Tamara.
With her eyes barely open, she opened the door and slumped against the frame. “What, Tamara?”
“Good morning!” The petite redhead bounced in, holding up a delicious-smelling bag she waved under Francie’s nose. “I brought you some croissants and a piece of the apple torte you like so much. Close the door and let’s put on the coffee, and you can tell me all about your date.” She headed for the kitchen without waiting for a response.
Mumbling under her breath imprecations against people who woke up both early and horrendously cheerful, Francie stumbled in pursuit. She sagged against the kitchen door and watched her friend bustle around, fixing coffee and setting the small round table in the window nook. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked around a yawn.
“Sure, but I wanted to talk to you before I had to go to the shop. I knew you wouldn’t let him stay the night, not on the first date, even if he is the best-looking man I’ve seen in a long time. Now sit down, and spill it. How was the date? Where did you go? What time did he leave?”
“Tamara, please.” Francie sat, put her head in her hands, and massaged her scalp to wake herself up. She hoped vaguely she was wiping those disturbing dreams out of her mind at the same time. “You know I can’t talk until I’ve had some coffee.”
“All right, Miss Non-Morning-Person. You have until the coffee’s ready and you’ve had three swallows.”
Tamara blessedly kept her mouth shut while the coffee dripped, and true to her promise, until Francie had the promised three swallows. She didn’t even say anything when Francie finally looked up from contemplating the rich brown brew as though it could foretell the future. She didn’t have to; her raised red brows made her point eloquently.
“All right,” Francie said after a fourth sip. “I think I’m beginning to wake up.” She took a bite of the apple torte and another sip. “We went to that restaurant on lower Westheimer you and I always talked about going to. It was very nice. The calamari was cooked just right, and he ordered a California chardonnay that went wonderfully with the meal. We both had fish, but I had grilled red snapper and he had sea bass sautéed in butter and wine. I had a scrumptious chocolate cake for dessert, but he didn’t have any, just a bite of mine. We both had coffee. We came home. End of evening.” She recited the events in what she hoped was a calm, thoughtful manner.
“Frrrannnncie! You know I don’t care what y’all ate, for crying out loud. C’mon. The juicy stuff.”
“Tamara, there was no ‘juicy stuff.’ We just talked about our families and computers.”
“Families and computers! Well, of course, computers. What else is there?” Tamara waved her hand in the air dismissively and leaned across the table intently. “So, what’s he really like? Does his mind live up to his great bod? The man must be successful. He had to have his gorgeous suit custom hand-tailored. Do you have any idea how much that outfit he had on last night cost?”
Francie took another bite and another sip as she tried to decide how much to say. Tamara had always shared tales of her own dates; it was only to be expected she would want Francie to do the same. But Francie couldn’t tell her everything, especially about Clay’s little tracking program or Kevin’s treachery. Hoping her thoughts didn’t show on her face, she hid behind her cup. Oh, why did she agree to do this?
“Well,” she finally said, thinking furiously. “He’s very nice, despite his looks.”
“Yesss! A breakthrough! You’ve never said that about a date before,” Tamara interrupted, pumping her fists in the air. “Keep going.”
“He has two sisters, one’s a management consultant and the other does something with plants, owns a plant nursery with their mother, I think. His father’s a consultant, too.”
“What else did you talk about? You couldn’t have spent all dinner on those subjects alone.” Tamara had a look on her face that told Francie the redhead wouldn’t give up until she knew more.
“We talked about computers, of course, and books, and movies. It turned out we like lots of the same things. He has an offbeat sense of humor, and we laughed a lot.”
“What about when he brought you home?”
“He wanted to see what kind of computer I had,” Francie said, just to be on the safe side in case Tamara had seen the two of them in her home office when she was peeking out her window.
Tamara just shook her head and rolled her eyes. “No matter what he looks like, a computer jock is always a computer jock, I guess. But that’s not what I want to know. Do you like him? Are you seeing him again? Did he give you a good-night kiss?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tamara. Can’t I have a little privacy?”
“No.”
“All right. Yes, I like him. Yes, I’m seeing him again.”
“When?”
“Tonight. He’s taking me to Wicked and dinner.”
“Great! What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know. Probably my brown dress with the jacket.”
“Ugh! That awful thing?” Tamara made a face clearly indicating her displeasure with Francie’s choice. “No, you’re not. Get dressed. We’re going over to the shop right now and find you something. A nice little blue outfit just came in. It will look wonderful on you, and it’s perfect for a theater date. And don’t tell me you can’t afford it,” she continued as Francie opened her mouth to object. “You make good money, and you might as well enjoy it.”
“Do you bully all your customers this way?”
“Only the ones I care about.” Tamara turned serious and put a hand on Francie’s. “I can’t tell you how happy I am you had a good time last night, and you’re seeing him again. It’s past time for you to forget Walt. Just because he was a sleazeball doesn’t mean all men are.” She put up a hand as Francie started to reply. “I know, you don’t like to talk about it, so we won’t. You just go get dressed.”
Francie sighed. It would be easier to surrender to Tamara’s demands than to argue. It made a good diversion also. With any luck, Tamara would forget her third question. Francie had no intention of mentioning Clay’s kiss, or her determination to resist him, or those dreams—especially those dreams. “All right,” she said, rising to pour herself another cup of coffee. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Good. That blue dress will knock his socks off. You’ll have him eating out of your hands in no time.”
Francie escaped to her bedroom with the idea of Clay without his socks—and other items of clothing—insinuating itself into her head. You idiot! she told herself. She would have liked to sit down and analyze what was happening, work out a more coherent approach to Clay and the effects he had on her. She couldn’t do that, however, with Tamara around.
So she put thoughts of her problems aside. Instead, she focused on the here and now and concentrated on the tasks she had to accomplish before going out tonight. Putting on her bra, she looked carefully at the end of her sternum, but could see no indication as to why it was itching so much.
