Captivated (17 page)

Her arms slid comfortably around his waist. “I’m learning to like them.”

“Good.” As he settled into the kiss, Nash realized his arms were too encumbered to allow him to give it his best shot. “Why don’t I get rid of this stuff, open the champagne?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.” With a long, contented sigh, she slipped out of her shoes while he walked over to pluck out a bottle already nestled in the ice bucket. He turned both hers and his around to show the identical labels.

“Telepathy?”

Moving toward him, she smiled. “Anything’s possible.”

He tossed the envelope aside, snuggled the second bottle in the ice, then opened the first with a cheerful pop and fizz. He poured, and then after handing her a glass, rang his against it. “To magic.”

“Always,” she murmured, and sipped. Taking his hand, she led him to the couch, where she could curl up close and watch the fire. “So, what did you do today besides call up some elves?”

“I wanted to show you my Gary Grant side.”

With a chuckle, she brushed her lips over his cheek. “I like all of your sides.”

Contented, he propped his feet on the coffee table. “Well, I spent a lot of time trying to get those flowers to look like they do in the movies.”

She glanced over. “We’ll concede that your talents don’t run to floral arranging. I love them.”

“I figured the effort was worth something.” He entertained himself by toying with her earring. “I did a little fine-tuning on the script. Thought about you a lot. Took a call from my very excited agent. Thought about you some more.”

She chuckled and laid her head on his shoulder. Home. She was home. Completely. “Sounds like a very
productive day. What was your agent excited about?”

“Well, it seems he’d taken a call from a very interested producer.”

Delight shimmered from her eyes as she sat up again. “Your screenplay.”

“Right the first time.” It felt a little odd. . . . No, Nash thought, it felt wonderfully odd to have someone so obviously excited for him. “Actually, it’s the treatment, but since my luck’s been running pretty well we’ve got a deal in the works. I’m going to let the script cook a couple of days and take another look. Then I’ll ship it off to him.”

“It’s not luck.” She tapped her glass to his again. “You’ve got magic. Up there.” She laid a finger on his temple. “And in here.” And on his heart. “Or wherever imagination comes from.”

For the first time in his adult life, he thought he might blush. So he kissed her instead. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

With a light laugh, she settled back. “I’d hate to disagree with you. So I won’t.”

He ran an idle hand down the braid on her shoulder. It felt tremendously good, he realized, just to sit here like this at the end of the day with someone who was important to him. “Why don’t you stroke my ego and tell me what you liked about it?”

She held out her glass so that he could top off her champagne. “I doubt your ego needs stroking, but I’ll tell you anyway.”

“Take your time. I wouldn’t want you to leave anything out.”

“All of your movies have texture. Even when there’s blood splashing around or something awful scratching at the window, there’s a quality that goes beyond being spooked or shocked. In this—though you’re bound to set
some hearts pumping with that graveyard scene, and that business in the attic—you go a step further.” She shifted to face him. “It’s not just a story of witchcraft and power or of conjuring forces, good and bad. It’s about people, their basic humanity. Of believing in wonderful things and trusting your heart. It’s a kind of funny celebration of being different, even when it’s difficult. In the end, even though there’s terror and pain and heartbreak, there is love. That’s what we all want.”

“You didn’t mind that I had Cassandra casting spells with graveyard dirt or chanting over a cauldron?”

“Artistic license,” Morgana said with a lifted brow. “I suppose I found it possible to overlook your creativity. Even when she was prepared to sell her soul to the devil to save Jonathan.”

With a shrug, he drained his glass. “If Cassandra had the power of good, the story would hardly have enough punch if she didn’t have at least one match with the power of evil. You see, there are some basic commandments of horror. Even though that’s not exactly what this turned out to be, I think they still apply.”

“Ultimate good against ultimate evil?” she suggested.

“That’s one. The innocent must suffer,” he added. “Then there’s the rite of passage. That same innocent must spill blood.”

“A manhood thing,” Morgana said dryly.

“Or womanhood. I’m no sexist. And good must, through great sacrifice, triumph.”

“Seems fair.”

“There’s one more. My personal favorite.” He skimmed a fingertip up her neck. Chills chased it. “The audience should wonder, and keep wondering, if whatever evil that’s been vanquished slinked free again after the final fade-out.”

She pursed her lips. “We all know evil’s always slinking free.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “The same way we all wonder, from time to time, if there really is something drooling in the closet at night. After the lights go out. And we’re alone.” He nipped at her earlobe. “Or what’s really rustling the bushes outside the cellar window or skulking in the shadows, ready, waiting, to ooze out and—”

When the doorbell rang, she jolted. Nash laughed. Morgana swore.

“Why don’t I get it?” he suggested.

She made a stab at dignity and smoothed down her skirt. “Why don’t you?”

When he walked out, she let go with a quick shudder. He was good, she admitted. So damn good that she, who knew better, had been sucked right in. She was still deciding whether to forgive him or not when Nash
came back with a tall, gangly man hefting a huge tray. The man wore a white tux and a red bow tie. Stitched over his chest pocket was Chez Maurice.

“Set it right on the table, Maurice.”

“It’s George, sir,” the man said in a sorrowful voice.

“Right.” Nash winked at Morgana. “Just dish everything right on up.”

“I’m afraid this will take me a moment or two.”

“We’ve got time.”

“The mocha mousse should remain chilled, sir,” George pointed out. Nash realized that the poor man had a permanent apology stuck in his throat.

“I’ll take it into the kitchen.” Morgana rose to take the container. As she left them, she heard George murmuring sadly that the radicchio had been off today and they’d had to make do with endive.

“He lives for food,” Nash explained when Morgana returned a few moments later. “It makes him weep to think how careless some of the new delivery boys are with the stuffed mushrooms. Bruising them heedlessly.”

“Heathens.”

“Exactly what I said. It seemed to put George in a better frame of mind. Or maybe it was the tip.”

“So what has George brought us?” She wandered over to the table. “Endive salad.”

“The radicchio—”

“Was off. I heard. Mmm. Lobster tails.”

“À la Maurice.”

“Naturally.” She smiled over her shoulder as Nash pulled out her chair. “Is there a Maurice?”

“George was sorry to report that he’s been dead for three years. But his spirit lives on.”

She laughed and began to enjoy her food. “This is very inventive takeout.”

“I’d considered a bucket of chicken, but I thought this would impress you more.”

“It does.” She dipped a bite of lobster in melted butter, watching him as she slipped it between her lips. “You set a very attractive stage.” Her hand brushed lightly over his. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” The fact was, he was hoping there’d be dozens of other times, dozens of other stages. With the two of them, just the two of them, as the only players.

He caught himself, annoyed that he was thinking such serious thoughts. Such permanent thoughts. To lighten the mood, he poured more champagne.

“Morgana?”

“Yes.”

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.” He brought her hand to his lips, finding her skin much more alluring than the food. “Is Mrs. Littleton’s niece going to the prom?”

She blinked first, then threw her head back with a rich laugh. “My God, Nash, you’re a romantic.”

“Just curious.” Because he couldn’t resist the way her eyes danced, he grinned. “Okay, okay. I like happily-ever-after as well as the next guy. Did she get her man?”

Morgana sampled another bite. “It seems Jessie worked up the courage to ask Matthew if he’d like to go to the prom with her.”

“Good for her. And?”

“Well, I have this all secondhand from Mrs. Littleton, so it may not be precisely accurate.”

Nash leaned forward to flick a finger down her nose. “Listen, babe, I’m the writer. You don’t have to pause for dramatic effect. Spill it.”

“My information is that he blushed, stuttered a bit, pushed up these cute horn-rim glasses he wears, and said he guessed so.”

Solemnly Nash raised his glass. “To Jessie and Matthew.”

Morgana lifted her own. “To first love. It’s the sweetest.”

He wasn’t sure about that, since he’d been so successful in avoiding the experience. “What happened to your high school sweetheart?”

“What makes you think I had one?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Morgana acknowledged that with a faint cock of her brow. “Actually, there was one boy. His name was Joe, and he played on the basketball team.”

“A jock.”

“I’m afraid Joe was second-string. But he was tall. Height was important to me in those days, as I loomed over half the boys in my class. We dated on and off through senior year.” She sipped her wine. “And did a lot of necking in his ’72 Pinto.”

“Hatchback?” Nash asked between bites.

“I believe so.”

“I like to get a clear visual.” He grinned. “Don’t stop now. I can see it. Exterior scene, night. The parked car on a dark, lonely road. The two sweethearts entwined, stealing desperate kisses as the radio sings out with the theme from
A Summer Place.
”

“I believe it was ‘Hotel California,’” she corrected.

“Okay. Then the last guitar riff fades. . . .”

“I’m afraid that’s about it. He went to Berkeley in the fall, and I went to Radcliffe. Height and a nice pair of lips just wasn’t enough to keep my heart involved at a distance of three thousand miles.”

Nash sighed for all men. “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”

“I believe Joe recovered admirably. He married an economics major and moved to St. Louis. At last count, they’d produced three-fifths of their own basketball team.”

“Good old Joe.”

This time Morgana refilled the glasses. “How about you?”

“I never played much ball.”

“I was talking about high school sweethearts.”

“Oh.” He leaned back, enjoying the moment—the fire crackling at his back, the woman smiling at him through the candlelight, the good-natured fizz of champagne in his head. “She was Vicki—with an
i
. A cheerleader.”

“What else?” Morgana agreed.

“I mooned over her for nearly two months before I worked up the courage to ask her out. I was shy.”

Morgana smiled over the rim of her glass. “Tell me something I can believe.”

“No, really. I’d transferred in the middle of junior year. By that time all the groups and cliques are so firmly established it took a crowbar to break them up. You’re odd man out, so you spend a lot of time watching and imagining.”

She felt a stirring of sympathy, but she wasn’t sure he’d welcome it. “And you spent time watching Vicki with an
i
.”

“I spent a whole lot of time watching Vicki. Felt like decades. The first time I saw her do a C jump, I was in love.” He paused to study Morgana. “Were you a cheerleader?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Too bad. I still get palpitations watching C jumps. Anyway, I finally sweated up the nerve to ask her to the movies. It was
Friday the 13th.
The movie, not the date. While Jason was hacking away at the very unhappy campers, I made a fumbling pass. Vicki received. We were an item for the rest of the school year. Then she dumped me for this hood with a motorcycle and a tattoo.”

“The hussy.”

Shrugging philosophically, he polished off his lobster. “I heard she eloped with him and they went to live in a trailer park in El Paso. Which is no more than she deserved after breaking my heart.”

Tilting her head, Morgana gave him a narrowed look. “I think you made it up.”

“Only part of it.” He didn’t like to talk about his past, not with anyone. To distract her, he rose and changed
the music. Now it was slow, dreamy Gershwin. Coming back to the table, he took her hand to draw her to her feet. “I want to hold you,” he said simply.

Morgana moved easily into his arms and let him lead. At first they merely swayed to the music, his arms around her waist, hers around his neck, their eyes on each other’s. Then he guided her into a dance so that their bodies flowed together to the low throb of the music.

He wondered if he would always think of her in candlelight. It suited her so well. That creamy Irish skin glowed as fragilely as the rose-tipped china. Her hair, black as the night that deepened beyond the windows, was showered with little stars of light. There were more stars in her eyes, sprinkled like moondust over the deep midnight blue.

The first kiss was quiet, a soft meeting of lips that promised more. That promised anything that could be wished. He felt the champagne spin in his head as he lowered his mouth to hers again, as her lips parted beneath his like the petals of a rose.

Her fingers glided silkily along his neck, teasing nerves to the surface. A low moan sounded in her throat, a moan that had his blood humming in response. Her body moved against his as she deepened the kiss. Her eyes remained open, drawing him in.

He slid his hands up her back, aroused by her quick shudder of response. Watching her, wanting her, he tugged the band from the end of her braid, combing tensed fingers through to loosen the intricate coils. He could hear her breath catch, see her eyes darken, as he dragged her head back and plundered that wide, unpainted mouth.

She tasted danger and delight and desperation. The combination swirled inside her, a headier brew than any wine. His muscles were wire taut under her hands, and she shivered with a mixture of fear and pleasure at the thought of what would happen when they sprang free.