Do You Believe in Magic?

by Ann Macela

  She’d had no control whatever, neither mental nor physical. He could have done anything to her, anything in the world. Ravished her on the floor. Torn her clothes off and taken her against the wall. Carried her into the bedroom and . . .

  “No!” she cried aloud. Yes, her body reveled at the idea.

  But he hadn’t done any of it. In fact, he’d calmly ended that devastating kiss and walked out the door. Cool, composed, unmoved. He’ d just walked out the damn door.

  How dare he?

  How dare he leave her in this . . . state, or . . . condition, or . . . whatever it was? How dare he reject her?

  How dare he not give her a chance to remind him of their agreement? To tell him she wouldn’t kiss him again? To reject him first?

  “Whatever it was” transformed itself into anger—hot, seething anger—and she beat her fists on her knees in frustration.

  Didn’t the arrogant bastard feel anything at all? After reducing her to a pile of storm debris, how did the man have the gall to leave, saying only he’d call her tomorrow night?

  Wait a minute. What was she thinking?

  “Oh, God! Oh, damn, damn, damn.” As her brain finally clicked into its analytical gear, she realized how she was reacting. She wasn’t thinking straight. She hadn’t meant for another kiss to happen at all.

  What was she angry about? Had he, in fact, rejected her? Why should it matter to her? She should be angry not at him, but at herself, for cooperating in that kiss. She hadn’t secured his actual, verbal agreement to her no-kisses rule, and the SOB had ignored her demand. And she’d given in.

  What had happened to her willpower? Was she falling for another handsome, charming man? Was this going to be Walt all over again?

  The last question galvanized her, stood her on her feet, and propelled her toward the bedroom. She told herself, “No,” several times down the hall, and she fussed and fumed while she removed her clothes, put on her nightgown, and washed her face.

  Rubbed her breastbone, which was now aching, not itching. Aching, with little sharp pinpricks of pain every so often. Just what she needed, another problem.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered again through the toothpaste foam as she brushed her teeth and her mind traveled right back to Clay. She’d had such fun this night, enjoyed his company so much. And the things they’d talked about. She hadn’t had a chance to talk basketball with anybody in a long time. Her computer buddies didn’t care much about sports, and Tamara liked to watch the men, not the game.

  But she and Clay together as a couple couldn’t go on, wouldn’t after they caught Kevin.

  She couldn’t take many more kisses like the one tonight. Not and remain sane. Not and remain her own woman. Not and keep Clay where he firmly belonged, in the business side of her life. She had to end this confusion between her mind and body.

  She could not let him touch her again when they were alone. Not let him kiss her. She would arrange the double date with Tamara and Kevin so Clay could meet the smarmy bastard. After that, she wouldn’t need to have anything to do with him. She’d tell Tamara they’d broken up.

  That would do it, she told herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked at her image and realized she was rubbing that spot right between her breasts again. She had to stop; she was only making it more sore. She busied her hands putting the toothpaste away.

  Once in bed with the light out, however, her body reminded her again of its pleasure at being in Clay’s arms, of its certainty of being exactly where it was supposed to be, of its longing to be there again.

  And her memory conjured up his words, “I think we’ve got this backward. About who’s sweeping who off whose feet.” And the look on his face, silver eyes so intent on hers; and his muscular body, so hard against her soft one; and the strength of his desire, so evident pressed against her aching sex. He had been as breathless and aroused as she was.

  Good. Let him stew for a while. The pleasure that idea brought made her smile in the darkness. It even seemed to lessen the discomfort in her chest.

  Maybe she was mistaken in her original conclusions. Maybe he had been affected. She was an analyst; she could look at the evidence, plot the sequence of events, map the procedure. He’d been breathing hard also. His voice had sounded like he had trouble getting the words out. And she remembered the way his hands had trembled on her shoulders. Separating their bodies had been as hard on him as it was on her.

  Maybe his honor and integrity had stopped him from . . . from what? Pushing her over the edge? Taking her where she had implied she didn’t want to go? She’d been the one who wanted to keep it all businesslike, and she’d told him so.

  But he’d been the one with willpower. How had he known to stop? Why had he? Thank goodness he had. She wasn’t ready for more. Wasn’t she? Would she ever be?

  Her body told her it was ready now. Her mind just wallowed around in confusion, as if it had been possessed by aliens. And the pain in her solar plexus seemed to come and go on its own schedule. At this rate she’d be a candidate for the loony bin in no time.

  Francie snorted at herself and punched the pillow into a more comfortable position. For a woman who’d always prided herself on her ability to think and act clearly, she certainly wasn’t doing any of that now. She’d come in a complete circle, from frustration to rage to frustration of another sort.

  What was she going to do about Clay Morgan?

  Put a stop to his kisses, somehow. Keep her distance. Live through this debacle.

  Survive.

  Hoping daylight would bring respite from her problems, she closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow. Her last memory of the effect the kiss had on Clay caused a small smile of satisfaction to cross her face before sleep overtook her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sunday afternoon, Francie was about to turn on her computer to check her e-mail when the doorbell rang. She was almost afraid it was Clay at her door and she still hadn’t decided what to do about or with him. It was Tamara, thank goodness.

  “Hey,” the redhead said when Francie let her in. “How was the date?”

  “What, no ‘Good afternoon,’ or ‘How are you?’” Francie teased.

  “You know me, I cut right to the chase,” Tamara grinned back.

  “Well, come on in. You want something to drink? I was going to make some tea.”

  “That sounds good.” Tamara followed her into the kitchen and plunked herself down at the table. “So, give.”

  “The show was great,” Francie said as she filled the kettle and put it on the stove. She described what they had seen and where they had eaten dinner. “We had a great time talking about basketball. He played on his high-school teams just like I did, and we had a lot of fun arguing about the NBA versus the WNBA.”

  Tamara rolled her eyes. “You two must be made for each other. Computers and now basketball. I don’t know any other woman who would have argued with her date about sports. Are you going to see him again?”

  Francie prepared the teapot and placed cups on the table as she answered, “We didn’t make any firm plans. I’m sure we both have plenty of work to do. I was assigned to a special project last week, and I’ll have to work late at least one night this week, most likely Thursday. I hope it won’t be Tuesday, because my basketball league plays at the Y then.” There, she’d told Tamara about Thursday, so her mission was accomplished. A wave of remorse about deceiving her friend struck her, and she turned back to the stove to hide her feelings.

  “You know, I may just come to watch y’all play sometime.”

  “You keep saying that, but you never do.” Francie poured the hot water into the teapot and carried it to the table. As the tea steeped, she asked, “How’s Kevin? How was your date?”

  “It was okay,” Tamara replied, spooning honey into her cup. “We went to the new club over by the Galleria. Kevin was feeling really good. He hinted about some ‘big plans at work,’”—she waggled her fingers in quote marks—”but he wouldn’t tell me w
hat they are exactly.”

  “Oh?” Francie tried to say nonchalantly, but thought the word came out in a croak. She coughed to cover her reaction and poured the tea.

  “Yeah, it’s probably some sales promotion. You know how these sales types are, always looking to the next big score, the next big client.”

  “How’s the shop?” Francie asked to change the subject, and they talked about Tamara’s business for the rest of her visit.

  After the redhead left, Francie sat at her computer, staring blankly at the screen. What was she going to do about Tamara? She felt like she was betraying her closest friend. She had to be able to do something to protect Tamara from Kevin, no matter what. But she knew neither she nor Tamara made very good liars, Tamara least of all. Clay and Herb had to stop Kevin from whatever he was attempting to find in the Brazos computer, so she herself couldn’t say anything to spoil the project. Therefore, all she could do for Tamara was what she was doing—keeping her mouth shut. God, she hated deception.

  Morosely she booted up the computer and stared out the window for several minutes after the familiar display appeared. When no answer appeared out of computer heaven, she sighed and clicked the button to check her e-mail.

  Sunday afternoon Clay went over to Daria’s. Their sister, Gloriana, was in town, but wanted to go back to the plant and herb farm that evening, so they were eating early. Moving up the dinner hour fit in with his plans to call Francie later, and he didn’t often have the chance to see Glori these days, so he was happy to accept the invitation.

  Being with his family would also take his mind off Francie for a little while. He still hadn’t come to terms with his reaction the previous evening. Maybe not thinking about it would allow the situation to percolate in his brain cells. Let his subconscious handle the puzzle. He had often used the method to solve problems in the past. Besides, to deal with Glori’s usual teasing, he had to pay attention or she’d get the best of him. As her older brother, he couldn’t allow that.

  He pulled up to Daria’s home off Sunset Boulevard by Rice University and saw Gloriana’s dark green Mercedes convertible sitting in front. His younger sister drove like a bat out of hell, and Clay shook his head as he got out of his car, remembering the last time he had been so foolish as to let her drive him somewhere. Talk about a white-knuckle trip.

  It was almost the end of September, but the temperatures remained high, and in Daria’s garden, the lush plantings still bloomed. Clay surveyed the grounds with a practiced eye as he approached the front porch. From the state of the plants, he had at least another month before Daria would be wheedling him to help Bent clean out the annuals.

  “Hello, Zorro, Lolita,” he greeted the two cats sitting by the front steps.

  “Mmrow,” answered Zorro, his large black body lounging insolently, the tip of his tail flicking. Lolita came to twine around Clay’s legs as he rang the doorbell. He reached down to pet her while he waited. “Yaaah,” the dainty Abyssinian said, arching her back to take full advantage of his caress.

  John “Bent” Benthausen opened the door with a big smile for his brother-in-law. “Come on in. We’re back here.” The tall, auburn-haired man led the way to the kitchen.

  “Hi!” Two green-eyed women greeted Clay as he walked in. They put down the cooking implements they had been using, and both gave him a hug at the same time.

  “Hi, yourselves,” Clay said as he returned the hug. He leaned back and surveyed his two sisters. They looked so much alike, so like their mother, he thought again as he always did when seeing them together after the passage of time between visits. The only major differences were that Gloriana was a little taller and her dark hair much longer, past her shoulder blades, in fact, while Daria’s short curls danced whenever she shook her head.

  “Something smells good,” Clay said, sniffing the air as he released them.

  “Roast chicken,” Daria stated as the timer dinged. “And it’s time to baste.” She put on oven mitts and, opening the oven, pulled out the pot. First she poured sherry over the browning bird, then used a baster to suck up the drippings and squirt them over the chicken. “I’m trying a new recipe for stuffing,” she told Clay, “with apples and pecans and raisins. No bread.”

  “But lots of sherry,” Bent interjected. “She soaked the raisins in the stuff.”

  “Does Mother know about this?” Clay asked as he stole a piece of the tomato Gloriana was cutting for salad.

  “She will as soon as I get home,” Gloriana said. “We concocted the recipe yesterday.”

  “Sounds good.” Clay smiled a thank-you at Bent’s handing him a glass of wine. “So, how have you been, Glori? How’re the plants and your classes and all?”

  “Fine. The farm’s doing well, the university is its usual self, and my botany classes are full,” Gloriana replied, as she scraped the tomatoes off the cutting board into the salad bowl. “I have a couple of very promising graduate students this year.”

  “Didn’t I see your name in W2? Some sort of letter to the editor about how to cast spells?”

  “Oh, that was in response to an article by a theoretical mathematician who wants to reduce spell-casting to a strict formula. He claims casting never emerged from the Middle Ages. Shows how much he knows, stuck in his ivory tower. I attempted to set him right.”

  “If anybody can do it, it’s you,” Clay laughed.

  “I’m sure he’s one of those with no respect for our history or knowledge of practical conjuring. You know how these theory guys have their heads in the sky,” Gloriana stated as she put the salad in the refrigerator.

  Daria interrupted. “Let’s take this discussion into the family room. The chicken needs to cook about a half an hour longer.” She picked up a tray of munchies and led the way.

  The conversation over hors d’oeuvres and dinner covered Gloriana’s writings and other articles in W2, The Witches and Warlocks Journal; Bent’s reorganization of his finance department, sans criminals; Daria’s latest consulting work; and finally, Clay’s hacker investigation.

  Daria brought up the latter subject as they finished dessert and coffee. “How’s Francie and the big sting?” she asked.

  Clay noted the expression of conspiracy and glee on her face but couldn’t fathom what was behind it. Why such a look when talking about a hacker? “She’s fine. She’s being a big help. She’s still bothered about her friend, but she’s going ahead with the plan. The sting is progressing.”

  “What are you talking about?” Gloriana interjected.

  Clay told her the story of the hacker and the plan for catching him.

  “And you’re pretending to date this Francie to get close to the hacker?” Gloriana asked.

  “Sort of,” Clay answered, thinking that pretense was rapidly becoming reality.

  “You ought to see her, Glori,” Daria said to her sister. “She’s about six feet tall, blond, and gorgeous. I’m sure it’s a real hardship for Clay.”

  “Oh, really!” Glori grinned. “A real bombshell? Built like a proverbial brick . . . ?” She waved her hands in the classic hourglass shape.

  “Yeah,” Daria smirked.

  “All right, you two,” Clay grumbled as the two women laughed. God save him from little sisters.

  “So, how are y’all getting along?” Daria persisted.

  Her nonchalance could have floated a boat, it was so strong. Clay had seen her play the game before. It usually boded ill for him, and he raised his eyebrows as he asked pointedly, “Fine. Why?”

  Daria laughed, more of a snicker really, and exclaimed, “He’s clueless!” She rested her forearms on the table, leaning toward her puzzled brother. “When you’re with her, does your blood seem to run faster and hotter? Can you feel yourself drowning in her eyes? Do you have the constant need to touch her? Do you think about her when you’re not with her? When you kiss her—and I’m sure you’ve kissed her by now—is it all you can do not to take it further, or at least as close as the nearest bed? Does she reciprocate your
feelings?”

  “Daria! Whatever is or is not between Francie and me is none of your business!” He never discussed any woman he was interested in with his sisters, and he wasn’t about to start now, even if Daria did hit every nail right on the head.

  “Oh, Clay, you idiot. I was right. I told you after we met her. I’ll bet she’s your soul mate!” she retorted, still laughing.

  “What?!? My s-, s- . . .” He couldn’t say the word. A cold zip of panic raced up his spine as his thought processes stalled. His magic center grew warmer, however.

  “Soul mate. S-O-U-L M-A-T-E. The good old soulmate imperative is at it again. I just know it,” she crowed.

  Clay sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, partly to hide his expression from Daria and partly to jiggle his brain back to action. Was she right? Memories of the night before flooded his mind. Walking away from Francie was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

  No, she couldn’t be, he denied to himself. He wasn’t ready to meet the woman who would become the love of his life. He did know he had to give his sister an answer and decided the best defense was offense.

  “How did you arrive at this conclusion? You’ve only seen the woman once. This doesn’t make any sense, Daria. You’ve had soul mates on the brain ever since you and Bent got together. Just because you found yours in a nonpractitioner doesn’t mean that I will, too.” He tried to make his voice as stern and disbelieving as possible, but he could see it didn’t affect her. He ignored the itch behind his breastbone.

  “I observed the two of you together at our meeting, remember? All of a sudden, you were both looking at each other so intently I’m surprised sparks didn’t shoot between you. She was nervous, and it wasn’t because of the subject of the discussion or because she’d done something wrong. She was definitely reacting to you. Furthermore, she’s not impervious to magic. She jumped when I kicked the spells up a notch. I know you saw that.”