Captivated (16 page)

Nash wondered if he should undo the snaps one at a time, or in one quick yank. Then he caught a scent that was nearly as exotic and every bit as seductive as her perfume.

“Is that coffee?”

Morgana sat on the edge of the bed and sniffed the contents of the cup. “Yes, I believe it is.”

Grinning, he reached out to toy with the end of the hair she’d woven into an intricate braid. “That was awfully sweet of you.”

Her eyes mirrored surprise. “What was? Oh, you think I brought this in for you.” Watching him, she tapped a fingertip against the mug. “That I brewed a pot of coffee, poured a cup and decided to serve it to you, in bed, because you’re so damn cute.”

Properly chastened, he sent one last, longing look at the mug. “Well, I—”

“In this case,” she said, interrupting him, “you happen to be exactly right.”

He took the cup she offered, watching her over the rim as he drank. He wasn’t a coffee snob—couldn’t afford to be, with the mud he usually made for himself—but he was sure this was the best cup to be found west of the Mississippi. “Thanks. Morgana . . .” He reached up to set one of the complex arrangements of beads and stones at her ears jangling. “Just how damn cute am I?”

She laughed, pushing the mug aside so that she could kiss him. “You’ll do, Nash.” More than do, she thought as she kissed him again. With that tousled, sun-streaked hair tumbled around a sleepy face, that surprisingly well-muscled chest tempting her above the tangle of sheets, and that very warm, very skilled mouth rubbing against hers, he did magnificently.

She pulled back, not without regret. “I have to go to work.”

“Today?” Lazily he cupped his hand around the back of her neck to urge her closer. “Don’t you know it’s a national holiday?”

“Today?”

“Sure.” She smelled like night, he thought. Like flowers that bloom only in starlight. “It’s National Love-In
Day. A tribute to the sixties. You’re supposed to celebrate it by—”

“I get the picture. And that’s very inventive,” she said, closing her teeth over his bottom lip. “But I have a shop to run.”

“That’s very unpatriotic of you, Morgana. I’m shocked.”

“Drink your coffee.” She stood to keep from letting him change her mind. “There’s food in the kitchen if you feel like breakfast.”

“You could have gotten me up.” He snagged her hand before she could retreat.

“I thought you could use the sleep, and I didn’t want to give you any more time to distract me.”

His eyes slanted up to hers as he nibbled on her knuckles. “I’d like to spend several hours distracting you.”

Her knees went weak. “I’ll give you a chance later.”

“We could have dinner.”

“We could.” Her blood was beginning to hum, but she couldn’t make herself pull her hand free.

“Why don’t I pick something up, bring it by?”

“Why don’t you?”

He opened her hand to press a kiss on the palm. “Seven thirty?”

“Fine. You’ll let Pan out, won’t you?”

“Sure.” His teeth grazed her wrist and sent her pulse soaring. “Morgana, one more thing.”

Her body yearned toward his. “Nash, I really can’t—”

“Don’t worry.” But he could see that she was worried, and it delighted him. “I’m not going to muss you up. It’s going to be too much fun thinking about doing just that for the next few hours. I left something for you on the front stoop last night. I was hoping you’d find time to read it.”

“Your script? You’ve finished?”

“All but some fine-tuning, I think. I’d like your opinion.”

“Then I’ll try to have one.” She leaned over to kiss him again. “Bye.”

“See you tonight.” He settled back with the cooling coffee, then swore.

Morgana turned at the doorway. “What?”

“My car’s parked behind yours. Let me get some pants on.”

She laughed. “Nash, really.” With that, she strolled away. The cat jumped off the bed and followed.

“Yeah,” Nash said to the now-snoozing Pan. “I guess she can take care of it.”

Sitting back, he prepared to drink his coffee in solitary splendor. As he sipped, he studied the room. This was the first chance he’d taken to see what Morgana surrounded herself with in her most private place.

There was drama, of course. She walked with drama wherever she went. Here it was typified in the bold jewel colors she’d chosen. Turquoise for the walls. Emerald for the spread they had kicked aside during the night. Bleeding hues of both were in the curtains that fluttered at the windows. A daybed upholstered in sapphire stretched under one window. It was plumped with fat pillows of garnet, amethyst, and amber. Arched over it was a slender brass lamp with a globe shaped like a lush purple morning glory. The bed itself was magnificent, a lake of tumbled sheets bordered by massive curved head and footboards.

Intrigued, Nash started to get up. Pan was still pinning his legs, but after a couple of friendly nudges, he rolled aside obligingly to snore in the center of the bed. Naked, mug in one hand, Nash began to wander the room.

A polished silver dragon stood on the nightstand, his head back, his tail flashing. The wick between his
open jaws announced that he would breathe fire. She had one of those pretty mirrored vanities with a padded stool that Nash had always considered intensely feminine. He could imagine her sitting there, running the jewel-crusted, silver-backed brush through her hair, or anointing her skin with the creams or lotions from one of the colorful glass pots that stood on it, winking in the sunlight.

Unable to resist, he picked one up, removing the long crystal top and sniffing. At that moment she was so much in the room with him, he could almost see her. That was the complexity and power of a woman’s magic.

Reluctantly he recapped the bottle and set it aside. Damn it, he didn’t want to wait through the day for her. He didn’t want to wait an hour.

Easy, Kirkland, he lectured himself. She’d only been gone five minutes. He was acting like a man besotted.
Or bewitched. That thought set off a niggling little doubt that he frowned over for a moment, then shoved aside. He wasn’t under any kind of spell. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was in complete control of his actions. It was just that the room held so much of her, and being in it made him want.

Frowning, he ran his fingers through a pile of smooth colored stones she kept in a bowl. If he was obsessing about her, that, too, could be explained. She wasn’t an ordinary woman. After what he’d seen, with what he knew, it was natural for him to think about her more often than he might about someone else. After all, the supernatural was his forte. Morgana was living proof that the extraordinary existed in an ordinary world.

She was an incredible lover. Generous, free, outrageously responsive. She had humor and wit and brains, as well as an agile body. That combination alone could make a man sit up and beg. When you added the fairy dust, she became downright irresistible.

Plus, she’d helped him with his story. The more Nash thought about it, the more he was certain the script was his best work to date.

But what if she hated it? The idea jumped into his mind like a warty toad and had him staring into space. Just because they had shared a bed, and something else too intangible for him to name, didn’t mean she would understand or appreciate his work.

What the hell had he been thinking of, giving it to her to read before he’d polished it?

Terrific, he thought in disgust and bent to snatch up his jeans. Now he had that to worry about for the next several hours. As he strode off to shower, Nash wondered how he had gotten in so deep that a woman could drive him crazy in so many ways.

It was more than four hours later before Morgana had a chance for a cup of tea and a moment alone. Customers, phone calls, arriving shipments, had kept her busy enough that she’d had time enough only to glance at the first page or two of Nash’s script.

What she saw intrigued her enough to have her resenting each interruption. Now she heated water and nibbled on tart green grapes. Mindy was in the shop, waiting on two college students. Since both students were male, Morgana knew Mindy wouldn’t need any help.

With a sigh, she brewed the tea, set it to steep, then settled down with Nash’s script.

An hour later, she’d forgotten the tea that grew cold in the pot. Fascinated, she flipped back to page one and began all over again. It was brilliant, she thought, and felt a surge of pride that the man she loved could create something so rich, so clever, so absorbing.

Talented, yes. She’d known he was talented. His movies had always entertained and impressed her. But she’d never read a screenplay before. Somehow she’d thought it would be no more than an outline, the bare bones that a director, actors, technicians, would flesh out for an audience. But this was so rich in texture, so full of life and spirit, that it didn’t seem like words on paper at all. She could already see, and hear, and feel.

She imagined that, when those extra layers were added by the actors, the camera, the director, Nash might very well have the film of the decade on his hands.

It stunned her that the man she thought of as charming, a bit cocky, and often full of himself had something like this inside him. Then again, it had rocked her the night before to discover that he had such deep wells of tenderness.

Setting the script aside, she leaned back in her chair. And she had always considered herself so astute, she
thought with a little smile. Just how many more surprises did Nash Kirkland have up his sleeve?

*  *  *

He was working on the next one as hard as he could. Inspiration had struck, and Nash had never been one to let
a good idea slip away.

He’d had a moment’s twinge at the notion of leaving Morgana’s back door unlocked. But he’d figured that with her reputation, and with the wolf-dog roaming the grounds, nobody would dare break in.

For all he knew, she’d cast some sort of protective spell over the house in any case.

It was going to be perfect, he told himself as he struggled to arrange an armload of flowers—purchased this time—in a vase. They seemed to take on a life of their own, stems jamming, heads drooping. After several tries, the arrangement still looked as though the flowers had been shoved into the container by a careless ten-year-old. By the time he’d finished, he’d filled three vases and was happy to admit he’d never be a set director.

But they smelled good.

A glance at his watch warned him that time was running short. Crouching in front of the hearth, he built a fire. It took him longer, and he imagined it took considerably more effort, than it would have taken Morgana, but at last the flames were licking cheerfully at the wood. A fire was hardly necessary, but he liked the effect.

Satisfied, he rose to check the scene he’d so carefully set. The table for two was laid with a white cloth he’d found in the drawer of the sideboard in Morgana’s dining room. Though that room had had possibilities, with its soaring ceiling and its huge fireplace, he thought the drawing room more intimate.

The china was hers, too, and looked old and lovely, with little rosebuds hugging the edges of gleaming white plates. He’d arranged the heavy silverware and the crystal champagne glasses. All hers, as well. And folded the deep rose damask napkins into neat triangles.

Perfect, he decided. Then swore.

Music. How could he have forgotten the music? And the candlelight. He made a dash to the stereo and
fumbled through a wide selection of CDs. Chopin, he decided, though he was more in tune with the Rolling Stones than with classical music. He switched it on and slipped the disc in, then nodded his approval after the first few bars. Then he went on a treasure hunt for candles.

Ten minutes later, he had over a dozen ranged throughout the room, glowing and wafting out the fragrances of vanilla, jasmine, sandalwood.

He’d barely had time to pat himself on the back when he heard her car. He beat Pan to the door by inches.

Outside, Morgana lifted a brow when she spotted Nash’s car. But the fact that he was nearly a half hour early didn’t annoy her. Not in the least. She was smiling as she crossed to the door, his script under one arm, a bottle of champagne in the other.

He opened the door and scooped her up into a long, luxurious kiss. Wanting his own greeting, Pan did his best to crowbar between them.

“Hi,” Nash said when he freed her mouth.

“Hello.” She handed Nash both bottle and envelope so that she could ruffle Pan’s fur before closing the door. “You’re early.”

“I know.” He glanced at the label on the bottle. “Well, well . . . Are we celebrating?”

“I thought we should.” As she straightened, her braid slid over her shoulder. “Actually, it’s a little congratulatory gift for you. But I’d hoped you’d share.”

“Be glad to. What am I being congratulated for?”

She nodded toward the envelope in his hand. “For that. Your story.”

He felt the little knot that had remained tight in his stomach all day loosen. “You liked it.”

“No. I loved it. And once I sit down and take my shoes off I’ll tell you why.”

“Let’s go in here.” After shifting the bottle and envelope to one arm, he tucked the other around her. “How was business?”

“Oh, it’s ticking right along. In fact, I may see if Mindy can squeak out another hour or two a day for me. We’ve been . . .” Her words trailed off as she stepped into the drawing room.

The candleglow was as mystic and romantic as moonbeams. It glinted on silver, tossed rainbows from crystal. Everywhere was the perfume of flowers and candle wax, and the haunting strains of violins. The fire smoldered gently.

It wasn’t often she was thrown off balance so completely. Now she felt the sting of tears in the back of her throat, tears that sprang from an emotion so pure and bright she could hardly bear it.

She looked at him, and the flickering light tossed dozens of stars into her eyes. “Did you do this for me?”

A little off balance himself, he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek. “Must’ve been elves.”

Her curving lips brushed his. “I’m very, very fond of elves.”

He shifted until their bodies met. “How do you feel about screenwriters?”