Captivated, Page 4

  The globe swam with them, and then, as if a wind had blown, cleared to a pure, dazzling white.

  Within she saw the cypress grove, the ancient and mystical trees filtering moonlight onto the forest floor. She could smell the wind, could hear it, and the call of the sea some said was the goddess singing.

  Candlelight. In the room. Inside the globe.

  Herself. In the room. Inside the globe.

  She wore the white ceremonial robe belted with a rope of crystals. Her hair was unbound, her feet were bare. The fire had been lit by her hand, by her will, and it burned as cool as the moonlight. It was a night for celebration.

  An owl hooted. She turned, saw its white wings flash and cut the dark like knives, she watched it glide off into the shadows. Then she saw him.

  He stepped away from the trunk of a cypress, into the clearing. His eyes were full of her.

  Desire. Demand. Destiny.

  Trapped in the sphere, Morgana held out her arms and took Nash into her embrace.

  The walls of the tower room echoed with one brief curse. Betrayed—by herself—Morgana threw up a hand. The candles winked out. She stayed where she was, sulking in the dark.

  She cursed herself, thinking she’d have been better off not knowing.

  * * *

  A few miles away, Nash woke from a catnap he’d taken in front of a blaring television. Groggy, he rubbed his hands over his face and struggled to sit up.

  Hell of a dream, he thought as he worked out the kinks in his neck. Vivid enough to make him ache in several sensitive areas. And it was his own fault, he decided on a yawn as he reached absently for the bowl of popcorn he’d burned.

  He hadn’t made enough of an effort to get Morgana out of his mind. So if he was going to end up fantasizing about watching her do some kind of witch dance in the woods, about peeling her out of white silk and making love with her on the soft ground in the moonlight, he had no one to blame but himself.

  He gave a quick shudder and groped for his lukewarm beer. It was the damnedest thing, he mused. He could have sworn he smelled candles burning.

  Chapter 3

  Morgana was already annoyed when she turned into her driveway Monday evening. An expected shipment had been delayed in Chicago, and she’d spent the last hour on the phone trying to track it down. She was tempted to deal with the matter her own way—nothing irked her more than ineptitude—but she was fully aware that such impulses often caused complications.

  As it was, she’d lost valuable time, and it was nearly dusk before she parked her car. She’d hoped for a quiet walk among the trees to clear her mind—and, yes, damn it, to settle her nerves before she dealt with Nash. But that wasn’t to be.

  She sat for a moment, scowling at the gleaming black-and-chrome motorcycle in front of her car.

  Sebastian. Perfect. Just what she didn’t need.

  Luna slid out of the car ahead of her to pad up the drive and rub herself against the Harley’s back wheel.

  “You would,” Morgana said in disgust as she slammed the door. “As long as it’s a man.”

  Luna muttered something that sounded uncomplimentary and stalked on ahead. Pan greeted them both at the front door with his wise eyes and his loving tongue. While Luna moved on, ignoring him, Morgana took a moment to stroke his fur before tossing her purse aside. She could hear the soft strains of Beethoven drifting from her stereo.

  She found Sebastian exactly where she’d expected. He was sprawled on her couch, booted feet comfortably crossed on her coffee table, his eyes half-closed and a glass of wine in his hand. His smile might have devastated an ordinary woman, with the way it shifted the planes and angles of his dusky face, curved those sculptured, sensuous lips, deepened the color of the heavy-lidded eyes that were as tawny and sharp as Luna’s.

  Lazily he lifted a long, lean-fingered hand in an ancient sign of greeting. “Morgana, my own true love.”

  He’d always been too handsome for his own good, she thought, even as a boy. “Make yourself at home, Cousin.”

  “Thank you, darling.” He raised his glass to her. “The wine’s excellent. Yours or Ana’s?”

  “Mine.”

  “My compliments.” He rose, graceful as a dancer. It always irritated her that she had to tilt her head to keep her eyes level with his. At six-three, he had five full inches on her. “Here you go.” He passed her the glass. “You look like you could use it.”

  “I’ve had an annoying day.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  She would have sipped, but her teeth had clenched. “You know I hate it when you poke into my mind.”

  “I didn’t have to.” In a gesture of truce, he spread his hands. A ring with a square amethyst and intricately twisted gold winked on his little finger. “You were sending out signals. You know how loud you get when you’re annoyed.”

  “Then I must be screaming now.”

  Since she wasn’t drinking the wine, he took it back. “Darling, I haven’t seen you since Candlemas.” His eyes were laughing at her. “Haven’t you missed me?”

  The hell of it was, she had. No matter how often Sebastian teased her—and he’d been doing it since she was in the cradle—she enjoyed him. But that wasn’t any reason to be too friendly too soon.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I hear.” He chucked her under the chin because he knew it annoyed her. “Tell me about Nash Kirkland.”

  Fury snapped into her eyes. “Damn you, Sebastian, you keep your psychic fingers out of my brain.”

  “I didn’t peek.” He made a good show of looking offended. “I’m a seer, an artist, not a voyeur. Ana told me.”

  “Oh.” She pouted a moment. “Sorry.” She knew that, at least since he’d gained some maturity and control, Sebastian rarely invaded anyone’s private thoughts. Unless he considered it necessary. “Well, there’s nothing to tell. He’s a writer.”

  “I know that. Haven’t I enjoyed his movies? What’s his business with you?”

  “Research. He wants a witch tale.”

  “T-a-l-e, as in story, I hope.”

  She fought back a chuckle. “Don’t be crude, Sebastian.”

  “Just looking out for my baby cousin.”

  “Well, don’t.” She tugged, hard, on a lock of his hair that lay over his collar. “I can look after myself. And he’s going to be here in a couple of hours, so—”

  “Good. That’ll give you time to feed me.” He swung a friendly arm over her shoulders. He’d decided she’d have to blast him out of the house to make him leave before meeting the writer. “I talked to my parents over the weekend.”

  “By phone?”

  His eyes widened in shock. When he spoke, the faint wisps of Ireland that occasionally surfaced in his voice enlivened his tone. “Really, Morgana, you know how much they charge you for overseas calls? They positively soak you.”

  Laughing, she slipped an arm around his waist. “All right, I’ll give you some dinner and you can catch me up.”

  She could never stay annoyed with him. After all, he was family. When one was different, family was sometimes all that could be relied on. They ate in the kitchen while he told her of the latest exploits of her parents, her aunts and uncles. By the end of an hour, she was completely relaxed again.

  “It’s been years since I’ve seen Ireland by moonlight,” Morgana murmured.

  “Take a trip. You know they’d all love to see you.”

  “Maybe I will, for the summer solstice.”

  “We could all go. You, Anastasia and me.”

  “Maybe.” Sighing, she pushed her plate aside. “The problem is, summer’s my busiest time.”

  “You’re the one who tied yourself up with free enterprise.” There was the better part of a pork chop on her plate. Sebastian stabbed it and ate it himself.

  “I like it, really. Meeting people. Even though some of them are weird.”

  He topped off their wineglasses. “Such as?”

  She smiled and leaned forw
ard on her elbows. “There was this little pest. He came around day after day for weeks. He claimed that he recognized me from another incarnation.”

  “A pathetic line.”

  “Yes. Fortunately, he was wrong—I’d never met him before, in any life. One night a couple of weeks ago, when I was closing up, he burst in and made a very strong, sloppy pass.”

  “Hmm.” Sebastian finished off the last bite of pork. He was well aware that his cousin could take care of herself. That didn’t stop him from being annoyed that some pseudo–New Ager had put the moves on her. “What’d you do?”

  “Punched him in the stomach.” She lifted her shoulders as Sebastian laughed.

  “Style, Morgana. You have such style. You didn’t turn him into a bullfrog?”

  All dignity, she straightened. “You know I don’t work that way.”

  “What about Jimmy Pakipsky?”

  “That was different—I was only thirteen.” She couldn’t fight back the grin. “Besides, I turned him right back to a nasty little boy again.”

  “Only because Ana pleaded his case.” Sebastian gestured with his fork. “And you left the warts on.”

  “It was the least I could do.” She reached out to grab his hand. “Damn it, Sebastian, I have missed you.”

  His fingers curled tight around hers. “And I’ve missed you. And Anastasia.”

  She felt something—their bond was too old and too deep for her to miss it. “What is it, love?”

  “Nothing we can change.” He kissed her fingers lightly, then let them go. He hadn’t intended to think about it, or to let his guard down enough to have his cousin tune in. “Got anything with whipped cream around here?”

  But she shook her head. She had picked up grief. Though he was skilled enough to block it from her now, she refused to let it pass. “The case you were working on—the little boy who’d been kidnapped.”

  The pain was sudden and sharp. He forced it away again. “They didn’t get to him in time. The San Francisco police did everything they could, but the kidnappers had panicked. He was only eight years old.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was a wave of sorrow. His, and her own. She rose to go over and curl into his lap. “Oh, Sebastian, I’m so sorry.”

  “You can’t let it get to you.” Seeking comfort, he rubbed his cheek against her hair. He could feel the sharper edges of his regret dulling because she shared it with him. “It’ll eat you up if you do, but, damn it, I got so close to that kid. When something like this happens, you wonder why, why you’ve been given this gift if you can’t make a difference.”

  “You have made a difference.” She cupped his face in her hands. Her eyes were wet, and strong. “I can’t count the times you’ve made a difference. It wasn’t meant to be this time.”

  “It hurts.”

  “I know.” Gently she stroked his hair. “I’m glad you came to me.”

  He hugged her tight, then drew her back. “Look, I came here to mooch a meal and have a few laughs, not to dump. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  Her voice was so brusque that he had to chuckle. “All right. If you want to make me feel better, how about that whipped cream?”

  She gave him a smacking kiss between the eyes. “How about a hot fudge sundae?”

  “My hero.”

  She rose and, knowing Sebastian’s appetites, got out an enormous bowl. She also knew she would help him more by saying nothing else about the case. He would struggle past it and go on. Because there was no other way. Flicking her mind toward the living room, she switched channels on the stereo, moving from classical to rock.

  “Better,” Sebastian said, and propped his feet on an empty chair. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re helping this Kirkland with research?”

  “It interests me.” She heated a jar of fudge sauce in the conventional way. She used the microwave.

  “Do you mean he interests you?”

  “Somewhat.” She scooped out a small mountain of French vanilla. “Of course, he doesn’t believe in anything supernatural, he just exploits it for movies. I don’t have a problem with that, really.” Thoughtful, she licked ice cream from her thumb. “With the movies, I mean. They’re very entertaining. His attitude, now . . . Well, I might have to adjust it before we’re through.”

  “Dangerous ground, Cousin.”

  “Hell, Sebastian, life’s dangerous ground.” She poured a river of sauce over the mountain of ice cream. “We might as well have some fun with it.” To prove her point, she covered the entire confectionary landscape with heaping clouds of whipped cream. With a flourish, she set the bowl in front of Sebastian.

  “No nuts?”

  She slapped a spoon into his hand. “I don’t like nuts, and you’re sharing.” After sitting again, she dug deep into the sundae. “You’d probably like him,” she said with her mouth full. “Nash. He has that relaxed sort of arrogance men think is so manly.” Which, of course, it was, she thought resentfully. “And, obviously, he has a very fluid imagination. He’s good with animals—Pan and Luna reacted very favorably. He’s a big fan of Mother’s, has a nice sense of humor, a good brain. And he drives a very sexy car.”

  “Sounds like you’re smitten.”

  If she hadn’t just swallowed, she would have choked. “Don’t be insulting. Just because I find him interesting and attractive doesn’t mean I’m—as you so pitifully put it—smitten.”

  She was sulking, Sebastian noted, pleased. It was always a good sign. The closer Morgana got to anger, the easier it was to slide information out of her. “So, have you looked?”

  “Of course I looked,” she shot back. “Merely as a precaution.”

  “You looked because you were nervous.”

  “Nervous? Don’t be ridiculous.” But she began to drum her fingers on the table. “He’s just a man.”

  “And you, despite your gifts, are a woman. Shall I tell you what happens when men and women get together?”

  She curled her fingers into fists to keep from doing something drastic. “I know the facts of life, thank you. If I do take him as a lover, it’s my business. And perhaps my pleasure.”

  Happy that she’d lost interest in the ice cream, Sebastian nodded as he ate. “Trouble is, there’s always a risk of falling in love with a lover. Tread carefully, Morgana.”

  “There’s a difference between love and lust,” she replied primly. From his spot under the table, Pan lifted his head and gave a soft woof.

  “Speaking of which . . .”

  Eyes full of warning, Morgana rose. “Behave yourself, Sebastian. I mean it.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Go answer the door.” The bell rang a heartbeat later. Chuckling to himself, Sebastian watched her stalk off.

  Damn it, Morgana thought when she’d opened the front door. He looked so cute. His hair was tumbled by the wind. He carried a battered knapsack over one shoulder and had a hole in the knee of his jeans.

  “Hi. I guess I’m a little early.”

  “It’s all right. Come in and sit down. I just have a little . . . mess to clear up in the kitchen.”

  “What a way to speak about your cousin.” Sebastian strolled down the hall, carrying the bowl of rapidly depleting ice cream. “Hello.” He gave Nash a friendly nod. “You must be Kirkland.”

  Morgana narrowed her eyes but spoke pleasantly enough. “Nash, my cousin Sebastian. He was just leaving.”

  “Oh, I can stay for a minute. I’ve enjoyed your work.”

  “Thank you. Don’t I know you?” His gaze changed from mild to shrewd as he studied Sebastian. “The psychic, right?”

  Sebastian’s lips quirked. “Guilty.”

  “I’ve followed some of your cases. Even some hard-boiled cops give you the credit for the arrest of the Yuppie Killer up in Seattle. Maybe you could—”

  “Sebastian hates to talk shop,” Morgana told him. There were dire threats in her eves when she turned them on her cousin. “Don’t you?”

  “Actu
ally—”

  “I’m so glad you could stop by, darling.” A quick jolt of power passed as she snatched the bowl out of his hands. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  He gave in, thinking it was still early enough to stop by Anastasia’s and discuss Morgana’s current situation in depth. “Take care, love.” He gave her a kiss, lingering over it until he felt Nash’s thoughts darken. “Blessed be.”

  “Blessed be,” Morgana returned automatically, and all but shoved him out the door. “Now, if you’ll just give me a minute, we can get started.” She tossed her hair back, pleased when she heard him gun the engine of his motorcycle. “Would you like some tea?”

  His brows were knitted, and his hands in his pockets. “I’d rather have coffee.” He trailed after her as she walked toward the kitchen. “What kind of a cousin is he?”

  “Sebastian? Often an annoying one.”

  “No, I mean . . .” In the kitchen he frowned at the remnants of their cozy dinner for two. “Is he a first cousin, or one of the three-times-removed sort?”

  She set an old-fashioned iron kettle on the stove to heat, then started to load a very modern dishwasher. “Our fathers are brothers.” Catching Nash’s look of relief nearly had her chuckling. “In this life,” she couldn’t help but add.

  “In this . . . Oh, sure.” He set his knapsack aside. “So you’re into reincarnation.”

  “Into it?” Morgana repeated. “Well, that’s apt enough. In any case, my father, Sebastian’s and Ana’s were born in Ireland. They’re triplets.”

  “No kidding?” He leaned a hip on the table as she opened a small tin. “That’s almost as good as being the seventh son of a seventh son.”

  With a shake of her head, she measured out herbs for tea. “Such things aren’t always necessary. They married three sisters,” she went on. “Triplets also.”

  Nash rubbed Pan’s head when the dog leaned against his leg. “That’s great.”

  “An unusual arrangement, some might say, but they recognized each other, and their destiny.” She glanced back with a smile before she set a small pot of tea aside to steep. “They were fated to have only one child apiece—a disappointment to them in some ways. Between the six of them, they had a great deal of love, and would have showered it over quantities of children. But it wasn’t meant.”

  She added a pot of coffee to a silver tray where she’d arranged delicate china cups along with a creamer and sugar bowl, both in the shape of grinning skulls.

  “I’ll carry it in,” Nash told her. As he hefted the tray, he glanced down. “Heirlooms?”

  “Novelty shop. I thought they’d amuse you.”

  She led the way into the drawing room, where Luna was curled in the center of the sofa. Morgana chose the cushion beside her and gestured for Nash to set the tray on the table.

  “Cream and sugar?” she asked.

  “Both, thanks.” Watching her use the grim containers, he was amused. “I bet you’re a stitch around Halloween.”

  She offered him a cup. “Children come for miles to be treated by the witch, or try to trick her.” And her fondness for children had her postponing her own All Hallows’ Eve celebration every year until the last goody bag had been filled. “I think some of them are disappointed that I don’t wear a pointed hat and ride out on my broomstick.” The silver band on her finger winked in the lamplight as she poured a delicate amber tea brewed from jasmine flowers.

  “Most people have one of two views on witches. It’s either the hooked-nosed crone passing out poisoned apples, or the glittering spirit with a star-shaped wand telling you there’s no place like home.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t fit either category.”

  “Exactly why you’re what I need.” After setting his cup aside, he dug in his