by Ann Macela
Francie, however, kept talking. “I’ve always felt that the supernatural, outside of religion, was just a big fake. Anybody claiming ‘magical powers’ has to be a charlatan. I guess I’m just a skeptic. I mean, the idea of magic, outside of fantasy books and computer games, Dungeons and Dragons, that sort of thing, well, the idea is ludicrous. I like the computer games as much as the next person, probably more, and I enjoy reading fantasy. But what adult would think it real, or such a possibility exists? Wizards and witches and sorcerers? Puh-lease.”
She paused, but he couldn’t utter a word. His thoughts had spiraled off into the void. He managed to cough, but she had more to say and ignored his interruption.
“I’m afraid I’m too grounded in the real world to even entertain such an idea. What’s the use in even daydreaming about how nice it would be to cast a spell and, oh, I don’t know, make it rain, make Kevin disappear, or get my housework done? That will never happen. I’ve always believed you have to make your own way in the world and take it as it is. You can’t hope for a magical something to help, a miracle to happen. It all comes down to your innate abilities and how hard you work.” She paused, then asked, “What about you?”
He cleared his throat and managed to croak out, “Oh, I’ve kept an open mind.”
She didn’t reply, but seemed to be waiting for him to say something else.
Mercifully, his brain started working again, and he knew he didn’t, absolutely did not, want to continue this topic of conversation. It wouldn’t do his cause any good. He might be able to use her comment about “innate abilities,” and God knew, casting was hard work, but he couldn’t show her any magic over the phone. None she’d accept. From those words about being “grounded in the real world,” he knew she’d have to see something with her own eyes to believe it. He obviously had to do some rethinking about his strategy and tactics for breaking the news to her. Time to change the subject. “Listen, do you feel all right?”
“Sure, why?”
“You sound a little down.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?” He knew something was wrong. She had sounded more like herself when she was denigrating magic. Now she was back to those flat tones.
“Well . . . I guess I’m a little depressed from talking to Tamara. I just hate deceiving her. It was so hard hearing her talk about Kevin as though he’s a great guy.”
“You’re doing fine, Francie. I know it’s difficult, but we’ll catch Brenner soon. We just need to set the trap.” He injected as much heartiness as he could into his voice to counter the listlessness he heard in hers.
“I guess. I’d better let you go. I still have to do some laundry.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We have the meeting with Herb at ten.”
“Oh, right. Well, bye.”
“Bye, and don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
“Bye.” She hung up.
“Well, hell,” Clay said as he put down the phone. “That went nowhere. Worse than nowhere, it went backward.”
Something was definitely wrong. What was going on in her head? Besides no magic and no belief in magic. She didn’t even want to entertain the idea it could exist.
Daria had had it easy. At least Bent had accepted the idea of magic and practitioners. But what had his brother-in-law said? He’d wanted Daria so badly nothing mattered except that?
What was going on with the imperative? Why wasn’t it harder at work? Francie didn’t seem to be in the same sort of state toward him. She seemed to be just the opposite. Retreating instead of advancing. Running away from instead of toward him. Was she afraid of him?
Maybe if he backed off and let the soul-mate imperative do its work, he wouldn’t have any problem. When the time came, he’d explain everything logically, and the rest would be clear sailing. Wouldn’t it?
Yeah, that would do it. Take it easy, reassure her, become part of her life. Not let her avoid him without getting some answers why. God knew, it wasn’t going to be easy, a few kisses here, a hug or two there, while his body was screaming for hers, clamoring for release.
He could do it, he was absolutely certain. All the pain and anguish would be worth it in the end. The imperative seemed to agree with him; a warm feeling engulfed his magic center.
He went off to the kitchen to pour himself a Scotch and contemplate his universe. But the color of the Scotch just reminded him of her smoky eyes, and then made him think of her kiss, and that didn’t do him any good at all. Thoroughly disgruntled, he tried playing a computer game and surfing the Web, but those didn’t work as distractions either, so he finally went to bed where he could stare at the ceiling until he fell asleep. At least he’d see her tomorrow.
His last thought was, everything would be all right.
Francie hung up the phone and sat back in her chair. She felt like she’d run some horrible uphill race. What was wrong with her? She was such a coward.
Just before he’d called, she had decided to reiterate that it could be nothing but business between them, no more of those kisses. She wouldn’t see him alone outside of the office. She couldn’t take it.
But there she’d sat, by the phone, waiting for his call like some hormone-addled teenage twit, and the mere sound of his voice had given her a thrill that blew all other thoughts out of her head. Maybe if she avoided being in his presence, she could control herself better. Keep it purely business.
She had told him one truth. The talk with Tamara had depressed her.
And what was all of that stuff about magic? In everyday life? Francie snorted to herself. Yeah, right. Just like in the role-playing computer games she liked. True, she did like to play a sorceress and throw fireballs, but pretending to do so was the extent of any magic in her life. Unfortunately. She’d sure like to cast a spell and make all this go away.
The painful itch returned suddenly with a vengeance, and she rubbed the spot vigorously for a minute. What she really needed was a spell to zap the bug who had bitten her. A good frying would teach it to fool around with Francie, Sorceress of the Gulf Coast.
Speaking of computer games, she had a little task to accomplish with a program for Conundrum, so she relentlessly quashed any other thoughts and turned to her programming. She was able to lose herself in the codes until it was time for bed. She took a couple of aspirins to thwart an incipient headache and managed to fall asleep by concentrating on relaxing her muscles slowly, from her feet up to her head, and not thinking about anything else.
It worked after a fashion. She did go to sleep about one in the morning, only to dream of being in Clay’s arms while multicolored lights swirled around them. She woke to a curious state of both exhaustion and exhilaration, convinced of one certainty: real life might not contain magic, but her dreams most assuredly did.
CHAPTER SIX
Monday morning, Francie walked into Herb Greenwood’s office at ten o’clock. Herb, Clay, and two men, one vaguely familiar and an unknown other, were standing by his desk. Consultants must not believe in casual office dressing, she surmised, because Clay looked gorgeous in a navy blue blazer, gray trousers, white shirt, and a red tie with an abstract design.
When her eyes met his silvery gaze, she shivered and pulled her baggy brown sweater tighter around her. She managed a weak smile. Three cups of coffee this morning hadn’t been enough to prepare her for seeing him again. She turned to concentrate on the other men; it was safer.
“Oh, good,” Herb said. “Now you’re here, we can start. Francie, do you know Tom Robbins from the Legal Department?” He indicated the short, rotund, balding man with rimless glasses.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Robbins, I’ve seen you in the elevator.” She and Robbins exchanged nods.
“And this is Lieutenant Bill Childress from the Houston Police Department,” Herb continued. “Legal decided we should call in the police before we go any further.”
Childress was a lean, nondescript man about six feet tall with short brown hair, wearing a ru
mpled brown suit. Francie thought he was probably just the sort of fellow people ignored or flat out didn’t see, but she liked his penetrating dark hazel eyes and firm handshake.
Herb waved them to the round conference table and pulled up his desk chair for himself. “We’ve brought them up to date, Francie,” he said before turning to Childress. “I understand you’ve worked with the Morgan family before, Lieutenant,” he said as they all sat down.
“A few members of it,” Childress replied. “I was on the case at the Glennell Company with Mr. Benthausen and Ms. Morgan. Clay’s and her father, Alaric Morgan, helped us make the case, and I’ve known Clay for some time.”
“I was on the periphery,” Clay interjected.
“I do wish you had called us earlier on this one,” Childress said in a somewhat exasperated tone. “I don’t like to use civilians for undercover, but I guess we’re stuck with your plan now.”
“Well,” Herb said, “let’s take it from where we stand now. Clay, I think you said earlier you’ve let Brenner know he can get into Francie’s on Thursday night.”
“Francie, why don’t you tell it?” Clay asked her. “It’s your story.”
Francie related her conversation with Tamara as succinctly as possible. She said nothing about her distaste for deception; after all, what good would it do?
“We can hope Tamara tells her boyfriend the coast is clear for Thursday, but we can’t guarantee it,” Clay added when she finished.
“Brenner hasn’t been on Ms. Stevens’s computer or tried to hack in from somewhere else since last Wednesday?” Childress asked.
“That’s correct,” Clay answered. “If he takes the bait on Thursday and dials in from Francie’s, I’m going to play with him from here—let him in, throw him out, let him in, move him around, and generally frustrate the hell out of him. Francie thinks he’s after sales and pricing information, and Herb and I agree with her.”
“So afterward you’re going to arrange to meet him and talk him into letting you into his scheme?” Childress asked.
“Let’s just say I’m going to make myself attractive and available as a computer expert amenable to making a fast buck and not too fastidious about how I do it.” Clay glanced at Francie and smiled before continuing. “I’ll meet him through Tamara. Francie and I have established ourselves in Tamara’s mind as a couple, don’t you think, Francie?”
Francie thought about Tamara’s claiming she and Clay were made for each other. “Yes,” she answered, looking at Childress rather than Clay. “She thinks we are—a couple, I mean.”
“I suggest we invite Tamara and Brenner for dinner Saturday night,” Clay said. “We could go to a restaurant or eat in, your choice. It will give me the chance to put some ideas into his head. What do you think, Francie?”
His direct question drew her eyes to his. She tried to be matter-of-fact in her answer, but she could feel tension coiling in her stomach. “Why don’t I cook something? Being in my apartment should give you more privacy for whatever you want to tell Kevin.” And being in her own home would give her at least the illusion of being in control of the evening.
“Fine with me,” Clay answered with a smile and a wink. “If we can also find out where he goes for a drink after work, all the better. I’d like to meet him on his turf later next week and see if he takes the bait. Could you ask Tamara about dinner Saturday?”
“I’ll ask her tonight,” she replied.
“If you do meet him alone, I want you to wear a wire,” the police lieutenant interjected. “We need some hard evidence, and a recording could provide it.”
“Certainly,” Clay stated. “Wouldn’t it be even more conclusive if I actually hack into Brazos with Brenner with me, telling me what to look for? Then, Bill, you could arrest him with his hand in the till.”
“Let’s see what we’re dealing with first,” Childress replied. “We don’t want to put you in any danger.”
Tom Robbins leaned forward. “We still don’t know if Brenner is invading our computers on his own or if he’s in collusion with anyone at NatChem, do we?”
“No,” Herb answered. “That’s what we want Clay to find out. How we’ll proceed depends on that information.”
“Right,” Childress agreed. “And it will determine who we prosecute.”
“So,” Herb said, “Francie, you’ll set up the date for Saturday. Clay, you’ll be here on Thursday night to handle Brenner.”
“I’ll be here,” Childress said.
“Me, too,” Francie said. “I’m working late then, remember?” she added when Clay raised his eyebrows at her. He didn’t think she would miss the event, did he?
“Come about five on Thursday,” Herb said. “I’ll have some sandwiches sent in. I don’t trust this guy. I’ll bet he’ll try to get in early. After all, he doesn’t know what time Francie will be home. I want to nail this bastard to the wall.”
The meeting broke up, and Francie slipped out of Herb’s office while Clay and Childress were talking about recording devices. She breathed a sigh of relief as she went immediately to a meeting on another floor. If Clay came looking for her, he’d never find her there.
That evening Francie called Tamara after she returned home and invited her and Kevin for Saturday dinner. Tamara was ecstatic her friend was finally coming out of her “cocoon” and immediately accepted the invitation.
Francie waited until Tuesday morning, however, to call Clay, and she called him at home, not on his cell phone. It would be easier to keep her equilibrium if she didn’t speak to him directly, or so she told herself. As she had hoped, she got his answering machine. The sound of his voice sent a shiver through her, despite her resolve.
“Hi, it’s Francie,” she told the recorder in as perky a tone as she could manage. “I asked Tamara and Kevin over for Saturday night. Come about six. I’ll see you Thursday at the office.” There, she thought as she hung up. That should hold him. She’d screen her calls at home tonight to continue her avoidance plans.
Tuesday evening Clay entered the gym at the Downtown Y and headed for the court where his team would be playing. He noticed a women’s team on a far sideline waving at someone, and when he looked around to find their target, who should be walking toward him but Francie? She was waving at the women and not looking where she was going, so he deliberately stood in her way and had the satisfaction of having her run right into him.
“Clay!”
“Hi, Francie,” Clay said as he held her upper arms to steady her for a moment. “I didn’t know you played in the leagues here.” He grinned as he looked her up and down. Mercy, he pleaded to any higher being who happened to be listening. She looked gorgeous in a thin T-shirt and shorts. Long, long legs, a stunning body, and a face to match, with no eyeglasses to obscure the view. Man, would he like to get her alone, but here they stood in front of God and everybody.
Then he remembered how she seemed to be avoiding him. “I heard the message you left on my home machine. Why didn’t you call my cell?”
“Oh, uh, I couldn’t find your cell number,” she stammered. “Is six o’clock all right for Saturday?”
“Fine. I’ll bring some wine and dessert, how about it? Red or white?” She was not meeting his eyes, and she was fidgeting with her towel, and he definitely did not like it. What was the matter with her?
“I don’t know what I’m going to fix, probably something easy with pasta, so bring what you like to drink. Look . . .”
“Hey, Francie! Let’s go!” Whatever she had been about to say was interrupted by a woman on the court.
“I have to go.” She waved back at her teammate.
“I’ll see you later,” Clay said. “How about after the game?”
“Uh, no, I’m sorry. I’m going out with my team. It’s a regular thing.” She gave him what he thought was a nervous smile and started for the court.
“I’ll call you,” he said to her back and received a nod of her ponytail in return. Damn. His hands on his hips, he stood
for a minute looking at her until he realized her entire team was staring at him. Not only that, but he was late for his own game. Afterward, he searched for her, first on the court, later in the lobby, but her game was long over and he couldn’t find her.
Francie didn’t answer her phone that night or the next; all he reached was her answering machine. Clay considered calling her at two in the morning, but decided it would only make her mad. He could bide his time. Thursday night would probably be filled with people, but Saturday . . . he’d be in her apartment, and they’d be by themselves at some point. He’d see to it. Then he’d get some answers about why she was avoiding him.
And maybe this damn itching imperative would leave him alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday at five, Clay, Francie, Herb, and Bill Childress gathered in Herb’s office. “The operators in the computer room will call when Brenner hacks in,” Herb said. He pointed to the pile of deli sandwiches on his conference table. “Help yourselves. There are soft drinks on the credenza, but if you want coffee, I’ll get a carafe from the lunchroom.”
Nobody wanted coffee, and they all dug into the food. Conversation was nonexistent, which was just fine with Francie. She felt like she was still getting over seeing Clay at the Y. What a shock. No, several shocks. First, from literally running into him and feeling her own body zing to attention. Second, from all that barely clothed masculinity. Lord, have mercy, the man was as good-looking in shorts and a tank top as he was in a suit. Long legs, lean muscles, and a rangy build combined with black hair and silver eyes into a potent male presence. Last, from all the questions and teasing from her teammates she had to endure. Now, she just had to get through the evening.
They hadn’t been eating more than twenty minutes when Herb’s phone rang. He answered it, said, “We’ll be right there,” and turned to his visitors. “What did I tell you? Brenner’s early.”
