Entranced

  “Sure they did. Our pal Devereaux’s right on top of things. But I like to finish what I start. You’ve got all these couples trying to start a family. They’ll try anything. Regulate their sex lives, their diets, dance naked under the full moon. And pay. Pay all kinds of money for tests, for operations, for drugs. And if none of it works, they’ll pay for a baby.”

  She came back to the island to sniff at one of the pots herself. “Good,” she murmured. “I know it’s usually on the up-and-up. A reputable adoption agency, a reputable lawyer. And, in most cases, it’s the right thing. The baby gets a loving home, the biological mother gets a second chance, and the adoptive parents get their miracle. But then you have the slime factor. The sleazeball who always finds a way to make a buck off someone else’s tragedy.”

  “Why don’t you put a couple of plates on the table by the window? I’m listening.”

  “Okay.” She puttered around the kitchen, following his instructions for china, for flatware, for napkins, as she continued to theorize. “But this isn’t just any penny-ante sleaze. This is a smart one, slick enough to pull together an organization that can snatch a kid from one coast, pass him along like a football crosscountry and bounce him into a nice, affluent home thousands of miles away.”

  “I haven’t found anything to argue about yet.”

  “Well, he’s the one we have to get to. They haven’t picked up Parkland yet, but I figure they will. He’s not a pro. He’s just some jerk who tried to find a quick way to pay off a debt and keep his kneecaps intact. He won’t be much of a lead when they find him, but he’ll be something. I have to figure the feds will keep him under wraps.”

  “So far your figuring seems flawless. Take the bottle and sit.”

  She did, curling her legs under her on the corner bench by the window. “It’s not likely the feds would cut a PI much of a break.”

  “No.” Sebastian set platters down on the table, pasta curls tanged with tomatoes and herbs, the wine-braised chicken, thick slabs of crusty bread.

  “They’d cut you one. They owe you.”

  Sebastian served Mel himself. “Perhaps.”

  “They’d give you a copy of Parkland’s statement when they nab him. Maybe even let you talk to him. If you said you were still interested in the case, they’d feed you information.”

  “Yes, they might.” Sebastian sampled the meal and found it excellent. “But am I still interested?”

  She clamped a hand over his wrist before he could slice off another bite of tender chicken. “Don’t you like to finish what you start?”

  He lifted his eyes to hers and looked deep, so deep that her fingers trembled once before they slid away. “Yes, I do.”

  Uneasy, she broke a piece of bread. “Well, then?”

  “I’ll help you. I’ll use whatever connections I may have.”

  “I appreciate it.” Though she was careful not to touch him again, her lips curved, her eyes warmed. “Really. I’ll owe you for this.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Nor will you when you hear my conditions. We’ll work together.”

  She dropped the bread. “Look, Donovan, I appreciate the offer, but I work alone. Anyway, your style—the visions and stuff—it makes me nervous.”

  “Fair enough. Your style—guns and stuff—makes me nervous. So, we compromise. Work together, deal with each other’s … eccentricities. After all, it’s the goal that’s important, isn’t it?”

  She mulled it over, poking at the food on her plate. “Maybe I did have an idea that would work better as a couple—a childless couple.” Still wary, she glanced up at him. “But if we did agree to compromise, for this one time, we’d have to have rules.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “Don’t smirk when you say that.” With her mind clicking away, she dug into the meal. “This is good.” She scooped up another bite. “Really good. It didn’t look like all that much trouble.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “No, I mean …” She laughed and shrugged and ate some more. “I guess I thought fancy food meant fancy work. My mother worked as a waitress a lot, and she’d bring home all this food from the kitchen. But it was mostly in diners and fast-food joints. Nothing like this.”

  “Your mother’s well?”

  “Oh, sure. I got a postcard last week from Nebraska. She travels around a lot. Itchy feet.”

  “Your father?”

  The faintest of hesitations, the briefest shadow of sadness. “I don’t remember him.”

  “How does your mother feel about your profession?”

  “She thinks it’s exciting—but then, she watches a lot of TV. What about yours?” Mel lifted her glass and gestured. “How do your parents feel about you being the wizard of Monterey?”

  “I don’t think I’d term it quite that way,” Sebastian said after a moment. “But, if they think of it, I imagine they’re pleased that I’m carrying on the family tradition.”

  Mel huffed into her wine. “What are you, like a coven?”

  “No,” he said gently, unoffended. “We’re like a family.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t have believed any of it if I hadn’t … Well, I was there. But that doesn’t mean I swallow the whole deal.” Her eyes flashed up to his, careful and calculating. “I did some reading up, about tests and research and that kind of thing. A lot of reputable scientists believe there’s something to psychic phenomena.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “Don’t be snide,” she said, shifting in her seat. “What I mean is, they know they don’t completely understand the human mind. That’s logical. They look at EEG patterns and EMGs and stuff. You know, they study people who can guess what’s on the face of a card without lifting it up, things like that. But that doesn’t mean they go in for witchcraft or prophesies or fairy dust.”

  “A little fairy dust wouldn’t hurt you,” Sebastian murmured. “I’ll have to speak to Morgana about it.”

  “Seriously,” Mel began.

  “Seriously.” He took her hand. “I was born with elvin blood. I am a hereditary witch who can trace his roots back to Finn of the Celts. My gift is of sight. It was not asked for or demanded, but given. This has nothing to do with logic or science or dancing naked in the moonlight. It is my legacy. It is my destiny.”

  “Well,” Mel said after a long moment. And again: “Well.” She moistened her lips and cleared her throat. “In these studies they tested things like telekinesis, telepathy.”

  “You want proof, Mel?”

  “No— Yes. I mean, if we are going to work together on this thing, I’d like to know the extent of your … talent.”

  “Fair. Think of a number from one to ten. Six,” he said before she could open her mouth.

  “I wasn’t ready.”

  “But that was the first number that popped into your mind.”

  It was, but she shook her head. “I wasn’t ready.” She closed her eyes. “Now.”

  She was good, he thought. Very good. Right now she was using all her will to block him out. To distract her, he nibbled on the knuckle of the hand he still held. “Three.”

  She opened her eyes. “All right. How?”

  “From your mind to mine.” He rubbed his lips over her fingers. “Sometimes in words, sometimes in pictures, sometimes only in feelings that are impossible to describe. Now you’re wondering if you had too much wine, because your heart’s beating too fast, your skin is warm. Your head’s light.”

  “My head’s fine.” She jerked her hand from his. “Or it would be if you’d stay out of it. I can feel …”

  “Yes.” Content, he sat back and lifted his glass. “I know you can. It’s very rare, without a blood connection, for anyone to feel me, particularly on such a light scan. You have potential, Sutherland. If you care to explore it, I’d be happy to assist you.”

  She couldn’t quite mask the quick shudder that passed through her. “No, thanks. I like my head just the way it is.” Experimentally she put a hand to it while
watching Sebastian. “I don’t like the idea of anybody being able to read my mind. If we’re going to go through with this temporary partnership, that’s the number one rule.”

  “Agreed. I won’t look inside your mind unless you ask me to.” Noting the doubt in her eyes, he smiled. “I don’t lie, Mel.”

  “Witch’s creed?”

  “If you like.”

  She didn’t, but she would take him at his word. “Okay, next—we share all information. No holding back.”

  His smile was both charming and dangerous. “I’m more than willing to agree we’ve held back long enough.”

  “We’re professional. We keep it professional.”

  “When appropriate.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Is sharing a meal considered professional?”

  “We don’t have to be ridiculous. What I mean is, if we’re going to go under posing as a married couple wanting a child, we don’t let the act—”

  “Blur those lines of yours,” he finished for her. “I understand. Do you have a plan?”

  “Well, it would help if we had the cooperation of the FBI.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  She grinned. It was exactly what she’d hoped for. “With them backing us up, we can establish a solid identity. Papers, backgrounds, IRS files, the works. We need to come to the attention of the organization, so we’ll have to be affluent, but not so high-profile as to scare them off. We should be new in the community we choose. No ties, no family. We’ll have to be put on the waiting list of several reputable adoption agencies. Have records from fertility clinics and doctors. Once they’ve gotten to Parkland or one of the others, we’ll have a better idea where to set up, and how.”

  “There might be an easier way.”

  “What?”

  He waved her aside. “I’ll get to it. This could take quite a lot of time.”

  “It could. It would be worth it.”

  “We compromise. I work out where we begin, when and how, you handle the procedure from there.”

  She hesitated, aware she’d never be any good at compromise. “If you pick the when, where and how, it has to be for solid reasons, and I have to accept them.”

  “All right.”

  “All right.” It seemed simple enough. If there was a frisson of excitement working through her, it was the anticipation of an interesting and rewarding job. “I guess I could help you deal with all these dishes.”

  She rose, started to stack the delicate china with the competence her waitress mother had taught her. Sebastian put a hand on her arm. The frisson erupted into a flare.

  “Leave them.”

  “You cooked,” she said, and strode quickly to the sink. A little room, she thought. A little room and some busywork was all she needed to stay on an even keel. “And from the looks of this kitchen, you’re not the type who leaves dirty dishes hanging around.”

  He was behind her when she turned, and his hands came to her shoulders to prevent her from dodging away. “So, I’ll be unpredictable.”

  “Or you could hire some elves to scrub up,” she muttered.

  “I don’t employ any elves—in California.” When her look sharpened, he began to knead her shoulders. “You’re tensing up on me, Mel. During dinner you were quite relaxed. You even smiled at me several times, which I found a very pleasant change.”

  “I don’t like people touching me.” But she didn’t move away. After all, there was nowhere to go.

  “Why not? It’s merely another form of communication. There are many. Voices, eyes, hands.” His slid over her shoulders, turning the muscles there to water. “Minds. A touch doesn’t have to be dangerous.”

  “It can be.”

  His lips curved as his fingers skimmed down her back. “But you’re no coward. A woman like you meets a dangerous situation head-on.”

  Her chin came up, as he’d known it would. “I came here to talk to you.”

  “And we’ve talked.” He nudged her closer so that he had only to bend his head to press his lips to the faint cleft in the center of that strong chin. “I enjoyed it.”

  She would not be seduced. She was a grown woman with a mind of her own, and seduction was, always had been, out of the question. She lifted a hand to his chest, where it lay, fingers spread, neither resisting nor inviting.

  “I didn’t come to play games.”

  “Pity.” His lips hovered a breath from hers before he tilted his head and brushed them under her jaw. “I also enjoy games. But we can save them for another time.”

  It was becoming very difficult to breathe. “Look, maybe I’m attracted to you, but that doesn’t mean … anything.”

  “Of course not. Your skin’s unbelievably delicate just here, Mary Ellen. It’s as if your pulse would bruise the flesh if it continued to beat so hard.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  But when he tugged her shirt free of her waistband to let his hands roam up her back, she felt as delicate as a dandelion puff. With a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a sigh, she arched back against him.

  “I’d nearly lost my patience,” he murmured against her throat. “Waiting for you to come to me.”

  “I didn’t. I haven’t.” But her arms had wound around him, and her fingers were tangled in his hair. “This isn’t why I’m here.”

  But hadn’t she known? Somewhere inside, hadn’t she known?

  “I have to think. This could be a mistake.” But even as she said it, her mouth was moving hungrily over his. “I hate to make mistakes.”

  “Mmm … Who doesn’t?” He cupped his hands under her hips. With a murmur of acceptance, she scooted up, wrapping her legs around his waist. “This isn’t one.”

  “I’ll figure it out later,” she said as he carried her out of the kitchen. “I really don’t want this to mess up the other business. It’s too important. I want that to work, I really want that to work, and I’d hate myself if I messed it up just because …”

  On a groan, she pressed her mouth to his throat. “I want you. I want you so much.”

  Her words started a drumbeat in his head, slow, rhythmic, seductive. He dragged her head back with one hand so that he could plunder her mouth. “One has nothing to do with the other.”

  “It could.” She rocked against him as he started up the steps. Her breath was already coming in pants as her eyes met his. “It should.”

  “Then so be it.” He kicked open the door to the bedroom. “Let’s break some rules.”

  Chapter 8

  She had never been one to throw caution to the winds. To take risks, certainly, but always knowing the consequences. There was no way to figure the odds now, not with him. Again, it was up to instinct. Although her head told her to cut her losses and run, something else, something closer to the bone, urged her to stay.

  To trust.

  She was still wrapped around him, throbbing at every point a pulse could beat. It wasn’t shyness that had her hesitating. She had never considered herself overly sexual or more than average in looks, so she felt she had nothing to be shy about. It was a sudden certainty that this was vital that had her taking one last long look at him.

  And what she saw was exactly what she wanted.

  Her lips curved slowly. When she started to slide down him, he braced her back against the bedpost so that when her feet touched the floor she was trapped between the smooth, carved wood and his body.

  His eyes stayed on hers as his hands moved slowly upward, fingertips sliding over thighs, hips, the sides of her breasts, her throat, temples. She shuddered once before his fists closed, viselike, in her hair and his mouth crushed down on hers.

  His body was pressed against her so truly that she felt every line and curve. She sensed that the power inside it was that of a wolf on a leash, ready to tear free. But it was his mouth that drove her mind to the edge of reason. Insatiable and possessive, it drew from hers every nuance of emotion. Desires and doubts, fears and longings. She felt her will being passed to him
like a gift.

  He felt that instant of surrender, when her body was both limp and firm against his, when her lips trembled, then sought more of what he wanted to give. The hunger sliced through him like a silver blade, cleaving the civilized from the desperate and leaving him quivering like a stallion that scents his mate.

  He reared his head back, and she saw that his eyes were dark as midnight, full of reckless needs and heedless wants. And power. She trembled, first in fear, then again, in glorious delight.

  It was that answer he saw. And it was that answer he took.

  With one violent swipe, he tore her shirt to tatters. Her gasp was muffled against his mouth. Even as they tumbled onto the bed, his hands were everywhere, bruising and stroking, taking and tormenting.

  In answer she dragged at his shirt, popping buttons, rending seams, as they rolled over the sheets. When she felt his flesh against hers, she let out a long, breathless sigh of approval.

  He gave her little time to think, and none to question. He was riding her into a storm filled with thunderclaps and flashing lights and howling winds. She knew it was physical. There was nothing magical about the skill of his hands, the drugging taste of his mouth. But oh, it seemed like magic to be whisked away, beyond the ordinary, beyond even the simple beauty of a rosy dusk and the stirrings of night birds just waking.

  Where he took her was all dazzling speed and unspeakable pleasure. A whisper of some language she couldn’t understand. An incantation? Some lover’s promise? The sound alone was enough to seduce her. A touch, rough or gentle, was accepted with delight. The taste of him, hot and salty on her lips, cool and soothing on her tongue, was enough to make her ravenous for more.

  So generous, his hazy mind thought. So strong, so giving. In the lowering light her skin was gilded like a warrior goddess’s prepared for battle. She was slim and straight, agile as a fantasy, responsive as a wish. He felt her strangled gasp against his ear, the sudden convulsive dig of her nails into his back as her body shuddered from the climax he gave her.

  Even as her limp hand slid from his damp shoulder he was racing over her again. Wild to taste, crazed to make her blood pump hot again until he could hear her breath rasping out his name.

  He braced over her, shaking his head until his vision cleared, until he could see her face, her eyes half-closed and drugged with pleasure, her lips swollen from his and trembling on each breath.

  “Come with me,” he told her.

  As her arms encircled, he drove himself inside her. And he knew, as they raced together, that some spells require nothing more than a willing heart.

  * * *

  She thought she heard music. Lovely, soothing. Heart music. Mel didn’t know where the phrase had come from, but she smiled at the thought of it and turned.

  There was no one to turn to.

  Instantly awake, she sat up in the dark. Though the night was ink-black, she knew she was alone in the room. Sebastian’s room. Being with him had been no dream. Nor was being alone now a dream.

  She groped for the light beside the bed and shielded her eyes until they had adjusted.

  She didn’t call out his name. It would have made her feel foolish to speak it in an empty bed in a shadowy room. Instead she scrambled up, found his shirt crumpled on the floor. Tugging her arms through the sleeves, she followed the music.

  It came from no real direction. Though soft as a whisper, it seemed to surround her. Odd, no matter how she strained to hear, she couldn’t be sure if she was hearing voices raised in song, or strings, flutes, horns. It was simply sound, a lovely vibration on the air that was both eerie and beautiful.

  She flowed with it, following instinct. The sound grew no louder, no softer, but it did seem to become more fluid, washing over her skin, sliding into her mind as she followed a corridor that snaked left, then climbed a short flight of stairs.