Now, Colin was thirty-six years old and he had no interest in falling in love. He’d done it once and he’d never do it again. Furthermore, he didn’t believe in love or magic or destiny. He believed you made your own destiny or bought it, sold it, stole it or wrested it away from anyone who wanted to keep it from you.
Instead, he was considering asking Tamara Adams to marry him. She, unlike all of the other women in his vast experience (and most of the men), made absolutely no bones about the end to which she used her many, talented means. She blatantly and with purpose used scheming, lies, tears, guilt, begging and sex to get exactly what she wanted. Tamara had done it since he knew her, which had been most of her life as their parents had been friends for as long as he could remember.
Colin Morgan did not love Tamara, he wasn’t certain he even liked her. Then again, Colin didn’t like most people and he specifically did not like women.
Indeed, it could be said that he disliked women with a ruthless passion.
He had reason.
Colin came from money; his father and mother were both members of the upper, upper middle class. Michael and Phoebe Morgan had both been (if somewhat distantly, in the case of his father, but not in the case of his mother) doting to their three children – Colin, Claire and Anthony.
Colin had gone to Harrow then Cambridge then he took a job on the Exchange. Within two years of graduating from Cambridge, Colin started his own brokerage firm. Then, shortly after, he stopped buying and selling stocks and started buying and selling companies. Or, more to the point, wresting companies away from their mismanagement, cleaning them up and selling them off, sometimes in pieces, for a vast profit.
He was known as ruthless but he didn’t care in the slightest.
He was ruthless.
Since he was a young boy, he’d never cared what people thought of him. Colin always excelled, always triumphed, no matter what. It was simply his nature. Part of his success was natural ability and extreme intelligence, both of which Colin had in abundance. Nevertheless, Colin was driven to succeed, pushed himself to be the best and settled for nothing less in himself or the people around him.
His father didn’t need to encourage his son or make demands of him. Michael Morgan often found himself concerned about his son’s single-minded pursuit of anything he wanted.
Phoebe Morgan’s feelings went well beyond concerned catapulting directly to outright worry.
As Colin grew older and matured, their son’s seemingly easy accomplishments, his determination and aggressive competitive streak set him up as a target. It didn’t help matters that he was unbelievably handsome, fabulously sexy, unusually tall, mentally and physically strong and inordinately rich.
Colin had it all and what he didn’t have, he obtained.
Many people didn’t like that.
Colin was a target to those who wanted to best him or those who Colin bested and who wanted vengeance.
These were mostly men.
Colin was also a target for those who wanted to tame him, trap him or wished to bask in the blazing spotlight of his glory.
These were always women.
Therefore Colin Morgan understood innately that nearly everyone was capable of betrayal, anyone could be (and was) devious and no one lived their lives without ulterior motives.
He cared for his family, had close friends but anyone not in his private circle mattered nothing to him. Colin rarely trusted; he knew from a wealth of experience that people did not deserve to be trusted.
And the majority of those “people” were women.
It had started with a girl who became besotted with him when he was still a young man. She’d written him long, lovesick letters and posted them to Harrow. He had little interest in her but didn’t have the desire to tell her to stop writing. Yet when he came home for a holiday, he found her kissing another boy at the tennis courts at their club. Upon seeing his knowing face, she assured Colin she did, indeed, love him, but she certainly wasn’t going to be bored and lonely on Saturday nights while he was away at school.
Then there was the first woman he actually felt some emotion for, a bright woman at Cambridge, a woman with raven hair who reminded him, somewhat, of the portrait of Beatrice.
They had been seeing each other for some months when he’d come across her at a pub when they were out separately one night, her with her girlfriends, he with his friends. Colin had been pleased to see her and approached while her back was to him.
“I cannot believe you’re dating Colin Morgan. He’s gorgeous!” he heard her friend say.
“Yes,” his girlfriend replied, “and he’s got a huge trust fund.”
All the girls had laughed. Colin had walked away and the next day when she phoned, he hung up on her. He completely cut her out of his life, turned away from her if he met her on the pavement and put the phone down on her the dozens of times she called. He never told her what he heard, he never gave her the chance to explain herself, indeed, he never spoke a word to her again.
Then there was Portia.
Colin had met Portia in London shortly after starting his own brokerage. Slowly, over time, she’d broken down the barriers that seemed, for no reason at all (and yet every reason), to have been around his heart since he was born. Eventually, after a great deal of effort on her part, he’d fallen in love with the passionate, chestnut-haired beauty.
On the verge of asking her to marry him, he’d come home far earlier than normal and found her naked on the floor in the living room of his flat. She’d been on all fours, his best friend, Kevin, on his knees behind her. He could still remember when her face, looking strangely bored and definitely resigned, turned to him. He could still remember how her expression melted to horror at being caught.
Colin had never been so furious in his life. He’d nearly torn Kevin limb-from-limb and he could have easily struck Portia and not regretted it.
Instead, he’d walked out of the room, moved out of the flat they shared and remorselessly turned his back on the both of them, never seeing either one of them again. Though, she had phoned. He could still remember the pleading in her voice when she tried to win him back.
“Colin, I’ve been with you for months and you didn’t ask me to marry you. I need to get married, I have to. Don’t you understand? That’s what girls like me do,” she explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She was hedging her bets, pursuing Colin with Kevin waiting in the wings.
Kevin married her. They divorced after a year with Portia in possession of a good deal of Kevin’s trust fund and personal earnings.
That had been over a decade ago. Since then many different women drifted in and out of Colin’s life. At six foot two, he had a lean, muscular body that he kept fit with relentless determination. He had thick, waving hair, only a shade lighter than black, light brown eyes the colour of clay, strong, prominent cheekbones, a hard jaw and, incongruously, an immensely sensual, generous lower lip.
What he didn’t have was any problem attracting women. His family name, the quantity of his money, his good looks, his arrogance and cold heart (that many women felt they could melt) made him an object of great attraction.
He considered himself lucky, women were a banquet before him and he had a lusty appetite. Colin took what he wanted, devoured it mercilessly and then left the remains without a backward glance.
However, his mother was complaining. Both his sister Claire and brother Tony had made good marriages. Claire, nearly immediately after being wed, had two children one after the other. Tony’s wife was now pregnant.
Colin’s mother wanted her eldest son settled. She wanted him to provide her more grandchildren to spoil, more opportunities for her to meddle and dote and lastly, she was simply just too tired after thirty-six years of worrying after Colin. She didn’t understand his heartlessness and she was deeply concerned about his antipathy towards women. She wanted proof that his heart was mended (from whatever had rendered it broken) so that she
could live out her old (ish) age knowing he was happy.
Enter Tamara Adams.
Colin knew that Phoebe Morgan didn’t much care for Tamara but then again, his mother didn’t have to sleep with her.
Colin liked sleeping with Tamara even if she wasn’t the best he’d had. What she lacked in imagination or even sometimes passion, she made up for in sheer will which worked very well to Colin’s benefit.
Shaking off these thoughts, he moved through the house to his study, uncovered the sandwiches Mrs. Manning left for him on his desk and smiled a small smile to himself.
His housekeeper was perfect. She was industrious, thorough and mostly unseen.
He settled behind his desk and made several business calls while he ate then made several more after he finished. Finally, late at night, he phoned Tamara, finalising plans with her to spend the rest of the week and weekend at Lacybourne.
“I can’t wait to see you, darling,” she purred and he had to control his annoyance at the endearment that didn’t even begin to sound genuine. He disliked it when she slipped into the usual feminine tactics and made them obvious. She was far more talented than that. “Are you in bed?” she continued suggestively.
“No,” he replied tersely and she immediately read his tone, not a stupid girl (which was one of her attractions) and quickly rang off.
While preparing for bed, he was unable to assuage his unease and wondered if he should scrape off Tamara and find someone else. Although who that would be, he did not know. After thirty-six years, he had long since given up on the idea that Beatrice Godwin’s reincarnated soul would enter his life, smiling magnificently at him and melting his modern day warrior’s heart.
Tamara knew she was entering the straightaway, heading for the chequered flag and the more she seemed sure of her position, the more irritating she became.
Colin lay in bed, crossed his hands behind his head and listened to the rain.
He did not relish the idea of finding a replacement for Tamara, though it didn’t really matter who it was. Although it did matter how she looked. Colin had a definite type and Tamara was that type.
Tamara had jet black hair, ice blue eyes and never allowed the sun to touch her alabaster skin. She was petite and watched her diet like a hawk so that she would not put an ounce of extra flesh on her slim body. She dressed impeccably and had her own trust fund. Her parents were friends with his parents and were also, most assuredly, upper, upper middle class.
She was, for all intents and purposes, perfect or at least as perfect as a woman could get in Colin’s dire estimation.
The rain still falling, his tired thoughts turned from Tamara to Beatrice Godwin.
He had no way of knowing if Beatrice Godwin was petite, except she was suddenly there, right beside him and she was not petite. She was long limbed and her body was lush with curves.
And there she was, laying in bed with him, completely naked, her skin glowing, her eyes heated with passion.
His mouth was on her, his hands were everywhere, she felt so damn good, she tasted so good, he couldn’t get enough of her. He felt the blood singing through his veins, burning through him with lust and… something else.
Colin was a man of many passions and refined tastes. Only the best suited him and he only accepted the best. He knew passion and desire; he liked sex, enjoyed it immensely but it was always just that, sex, an experience, a release. The act of intercourse was another skill to acquire, hone and use with ruthless determination to meet his own ends.
But he’d never felt a desire so strong it was a need before, desire that was so insistent it was nearly violent.
But he felt that with Beatrice.
Colin lifted his mouth from her nipple and looked at her face. He was surprised to see her lustrous dark locks had turned gold. Her hazel eyes were warm, melting to a liquid brown and when she opened her mouth and whispered, “Colin,” her voice was husky with her own need.
He had to have her, immediately, he could not, would not, wait a moment longer. He pulled himself over her, opened her legs and her hands glided into his hair.
He opened his mouth to say her name but somehow “Beatrice” wasn’t right.
But he had no time to sort his confusion because he was ripped viciously from her arms as they were both hauled out of the bed.
At the side of the bed, strong hands holding him back as he struggled, he watched as the faceless, dark entities that kept him hostage tore her out of the bed the other way.
He roared his fury, brutal feelings he didn’t quite understand surging through him as he watched her battle across the room. Colin came to the instant realisation that she was life to him, she was breath. The world, the entire world, his whole being, heart and soul, was wrapped up in her.
He struggled fiercely but in vain. He watched, his gut wrenching in despair, as the sharp, shining blade swiftly, without delay, slid across her throat causing hideous blood to splatter everywhere from the gaping wound at her neck.
He woke, somehow, even though it couldn’t be possible, to a high-pitched, blood-chilling, woman’s scream.
Chapter Two
Dream Man
Sibyl Godwin woke to the thunderous, rage-filled roar of a man.
Her eyes flew open and Bran, her cat, flew off the bed with an angry mew while Mallory, her dog (who had been taking up most of her wide mattress) jumped awkwardly off the other side and began barking.
The roar could not have come from the throat of the man of her dream.
That throat, in her dream, had just been slit.
She realised she was panting and absolutely, utterly terrified.
The shutters were closed on the windows and she threw back the heavy covers of her bed, running to the windows and throwing them open to let in the moonlight.
There was no moonlight.
She ran back to the bed and switched on her bedside lamp, wondering distractedly why she hadn’t thought of that first.
“Be quiet, Mallory!” she ordered and her mastiff immediately sat, his large tongue rolled out and a glob of drool slid off the side of his lip and landed with a plop on the carpet.
“That’s disgusting,” Sibyl told the dog affectionately as she shakily sat at the edge of the bed.
Her dog came forward, his whole body moving in opposite tandem with his fiercely wagging tail. He nudged her trembling hand and she sat there, petting her pup and trying to get control of her panic.
Something, she knew from years of experience with this type of thing, was terribly, horribly wrong.
“I need to call Mom,” she announced to Mallory and he just looked at her, all of his earlier mood gone, currently in blissful dog world as she scratched behind his ears.
She opened the drawer to her bedside table, took out the calling card that was her lifeline to home and grabbed the phone. She carefully dialled the numbers on the card and then added the memorised numbers that she knew would ring the phone in her parents’ house in Boulder, Colorado.
“Mom?” her voice was just as shaky as Sibyl felt and even though thousand of miles separated mother and daughter, Marguerite Godwin heard the tremulous tone.
“My goddess, Sibyl, what’s wrong?”
“Oh Mom, I just had the most terrible dream.”
And then, Sibyl started crying.
* * * * *
Sibyl Godwin had led a charmed life.
She was born to Albert Godwin, an Englishman, a professor of Medieval History and an amateur archaeologist and Marguerite Den, a hippy, a follower of Wicca and a hopeless romantic. Her parents loved each other with a love that just made your toes curl with happy delight at the sight of it.
Bertie and Mags had two daughters, Sibyl and Scarlett. Sibyl, named thus because Mags thought it was appropriately witch-sounding. Scarlett, after Mags’s idol and the best romantic heroine in the history of woman (which, at worst, was only a few short days after the beginning of the history of man, if one believed that sort of thing), Scarlett O’Hara.
Mags and Bertie loved their daughters with a love that was a shining testimony to all that was good and right about parenthood.
Even if they were just a tad bit weird and a much larger bit eccentric.
Mags, Sibyl and Scarlett happily followed after Bertie from teaching post to teaching post, at the University of Arizona, UNLV, UCLA, UC Berkeley (which Mags adored) and, finally, he gained tenure at the University of Colorado in Boulder.
Mags spent a lot of time communing with Native Americans, opening sacred circles in the mountains or the dessert depending on where they lived (often she would simply resort to their backyard which frightened (or annoyed) the neighbours because she would do this skyclad, or utterly naked), doting on her small family and fretting after her two daughters.
Not that there was a great deal to fret over, Sibyl and Scarlett were both bright, vivacious, thoughtful and had wonderful senses of humour.
Sibyl did have a bit of a temper (or more than a bit on occasion and an explosive bit on other occasions).
And Scarlett had a penchant for collecting and discarding men (not on occasion but all the time).
Sibyl, Mags was convinced, was a clairvoyant, often having strange, vivid dreams of events that came true. Mags was certain these were premonitions if only her daughter would just learn to read them. Mags tried to help Sibyl channel this extraordinary power but Sibyl didn’t have any interest (much to Mags’s everlasting chagrin).
Further concerning Mags and Bertie was that Sibyl, from a very early age, had the deep belief that she would one day meet her one and only true love. A knight in shining armour, kind, loyal and strong, her soulmate, heartmate and helpmate. Sibyl knew to the depths of her very soul that one day she would meet this man who would turn her world golden and provide her with all the joy and happiness she could endure.
Scarlett was, luckily (in Bertie and Mags’s opinion), a lot more down-to-earth.
Nevertheless, there were two more worries for the Godwins.
Both of their girls’ hearts were way too open (and easily broken).