Read Do You Believe in Magic? Online

Authors: Ann Macela

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Magic, #Fantasy, #Paranormal, #Romance, #Contemporary

Do You Believe in Magic? (6 page)

BOOK: Do You Believe in Magic?
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Mercy, what a body.
Holy hell, what a woman.
His thoughts totally negated the slight effect of the shower. Damn, how was he going to get to sleep? But he did, almost, until he remembered the way her eyes shone with intelligence and humor when they had talked so long over the meal, until he saw again the delight of her smile, the golden highlights in her hair, and heard the sound of her laughter. Oh, man, did he want to feel her body against his. No camouflage, no barriers.
The promise they had made each other, especially about telling each other the truth, stopped his fantasies for a moment. Tell her the truth? About being a practitioner? He’d thought about it just before their lips met.
Where did that idea come from? Practitioners never told nonpractitioners about their abilities to do magic. He’d never told any of his other lovers. Why should he tell this one?
But he hadn’t agreed not to kiss her, and his emotions and desire weren’t pretense, but true and real. Convincing her would be fun. He grinned into the darkness.
He turned over, punched the pillow, and tried to concentrate on the dullest computer motherboard diagrams he could think of. Eventually, he, too, slept, but the next morning his sternum was itching like mad.
CHAPTER THREE
 
A loud banging on her door pulled Francie out of a deep dream in which she and Clay were definitely alone, with no eyeglasses, no camouflage, and absolutely no artificial barriers between them. She fought with the sheet as she struggled to determine what the noise was all about and why Clay had vanished from her arms. Groaning, she opened her eyes and glanced over at the alarm clock.
Seven o’clock.
In the morning.
Saturday morning. Who on earth . . .?
Tamara. Of course, coming to check up on her date with Clay.
Francie hauled herself out of bed, threw on a robe, and staggered barefoot into the hall. “I’m coming,” she muttered as her tormentor beat on the door and also poked the doorbell to add the ding-dong to the din. At the front door, she peeked blearily out the peephole. Yep, Tamara.
With her eyes barely open, she opened the door and slumped against the frame. “What, Tamara?”
“Good morning!” The petite redhead bounced in, holding up a delicious-smelling bag she waved under Francie’s nose. “I brought you some croissants and a piece of the apple torte you like so much. Close the door and let’s put on the coffee, and you can tell me all about your date.” She headed for the kitchen without waiting for a response.
Mumbling under her breath imprecations against people who woke up both early and horrendously cheerful, Francie stumbled in pursuit. She sagged against the kitchen door and watched her friend bustle around, fixing coffee and setting the small round table in the window nook. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked around a yawn.
“Sure, but I wanted to talk to you before I had to go to the shop. I knew you wouldn’t let him stay the night, not on the first date, even if he is the best-looking man I’ve seen in a long time. Now sit down, and spill it. How was the date? Where did you go? What time did he leave?”
“Tamara, please.” Francie sat, put her head in her hands, and massaged her scalp to wake herself up. She hoped vaguely she was wiping those disturbing dreams out of her mind at the same time. “You know I can’t talk until I’ve had some coffee.”
“All right, Miss Non-Morning-Person. You have until the coffee’s ready and you’ve had three swallows.”
Tamara blessedly kept her mouth shut while the coffee dripped, and true to her promise, until Francie had the promised three swallows. She didn’t even say anything when Francie finally looked up from contemplating the rich brown brew as though it could foretell the future. She didn’t have to; her raised red brows made her point eloquently.
“All right,” Francie said after a fourth sip. “I think I’m beginning to wake up.” She took a bite of the apple torte and another sip. “We went to that restaurant on lower Westheimer you and I always talked about going to. It was very nice. The calamari was cooked just right, and he ordered a California chardonnay that went wonderfully with the meal. We both had fish, but I had grilled red snapper and he had sea bass sautéed in butter and wine. I had a scrumptious chocolate cake for dessert, but he didn’t have any, just a bite of mine. We both had coffee. We came home. End of evening.” She recited the events in what she hoped was a calm, thoughtful manner.
“Frrrannnncie! You know I don’t care what y’all ate, for crying out loud. C’mon. The juicy stuff.”
“Tamara, there was no ‘juicy stuff.’ We just talked about our families and computers.”
“Families and computers! Well, of course, computers. What else is there?” Tamara waved her hand in the air dismissively and leaned across the table intently. “So, what’s he really like? Does his mind live up to his great bod? The man must be successful. He had to have his gorgeous suit custom hand-tailored. Do you have any idea how much that outfit he had on last night cost?”
Francie took another bite and another sip as she tried to decide how much to say. Tamara had always shared tales of her own dates; it was only to be expected she would want Francie to do the same. But Francie couldn’t tell her everything, especially about Clay’s little tracking program or Kevin’s treachery. Hoping her thoughts didn’t show on her face, she hid behind her cup. Oh, why did she agree to do this?
“Well,” she finally said, thinking furiously. “He’s very nice, despite his looks.”
“Yesss! A breakthrough! You’ve never said that about a date before,” Tamara interrupted, pumping her fists in the air. “Keep going.”
“He has two sisters, one’s a management consultant and the other does something with plants, owns a plant nursery with their mother, I think. His father’s a consultant, too.”
“What else did you talk about? You couldn’t have spent all dinner on those subjects alone.” Tamara had a look on her face that told Francie the redhead wouldn’t give up until she knew more.
“We talked about computers, of course, and books, and movies. It turned out we like lots of the same things. He has an offbeat sense of humor, and we laughed a lot.”
“What about when he brought you home?”
“He wanted to see what kind of computer I had,” Francie said, just to be on the safe side in case Tamara had seen the two of them in her home office when she was peeking out her window.
Tamara just shook her head and rolled her eyes. “No matter what he looks like, a computer jock is always a computer jock, I guess. But that’s not what I want to know. Do you like him? Are you seeing him again? Did he give you a good-night kiss?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tamara. Can’t I have a little privacy?”
“No.”
“All right. Yes, I like him. Yes, I’m seeing him again.”
“When?”
“Tonight. He’s taking me to
Wicked
and dinner.”
“Great! What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know. Probably my brown dress with the jacket.”
“Ugh! That awful thing?” Tamara made a face clearly indicating her displeasure with Francie’s choice. “No, you’re not. Get dressed. We’re going over to the shop right now and find you something. A nice little blue outfit just came in. It will look wonderful on you, and it’s perfect for a theater date. And don’t tell me you can’t afford it,” she continued as Francie opened her mouth to object. “You make good money, and you might as well enjoy it.”
“Do you bully all your customers this way?”
“Only the ones I care about.” Tamara turned serious and put a hand on Francie’s. “I can’t tell you how happy I am you had a good time last night, and you’re seeing him again. It’s past time for you to forget Walt. Just because he was a sleazeball doesn’t mean all men are.” She put up a hand as Francie started to reply. “I know, you don’t like to talk about it, so we won’t. You just go get dressed.”
Francie sighed. It would be easier to surrender to Tamara’s demands than to argue. It made a good diversion also. With any luck, Tamara would forget her third question. Francie had no intention of mentioning Clay’s kiss, or her determination to resist him, or those dreams—especially those dreams. “All right,” she said, rising to pour herself another cup of coffee. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“Good. That blue dress will knock his socks off. You’ll have him eating out of your hands in no time.”
Francie escaped to her bedroom with the idea of Clay without his socks—and other items of clothing—insinuating itself into her head.
You idiot!
she told herself. She would have liked to sit down and analyze what was happening, work out a more coherent approach to Clay and the effects he had on her. She couldn’t do that, however, with Tamara around.
So she put thoughts of her problems aside. Instead, she focused on the here and now and concentrated on the tasks she had to accomplish before going out tonight. Putting on her bra, she looked carefully at the end of her sternum, but could see no indication as to why it was itching so much.
 
That night, Francie studied her reflection in the mirror. Tamara had been correct: the outfit looked great. The deep blue dress clung in the right places and made her hair look blonder. The collarless, buttonless jacket hung to just the right length. Her upswept hair in its neat twist, her pearl necklace and earrings, gave her an air of sophistication—she hoped. The makeup she had applied, again following Tamara’s instructions, worked to enhance her eyes—with or without her glasses. Somewhat self-consciously, remembering Clay’s admonition against them, she put on the eyeglasses and took them off again. She couldn’t help feeling vulnerable without the comforting frames.
She looked over at her open closet, hanger after hanger full of drab browns and dull greens and dingy rusts and faded yellows, not to mention the beiges and grays. Funny, she hadn’t realized until this moment how much she missed wearing brighter colors. Or dressing to look good. Look good for herself, she amended. Certainly not for a man. Certainly not to attract a man. Certainly not for Clay Morgan.
You’re not going to let yourself get hurt or be made a fool of again
, she silently reminded her reflection. Resolutely she closed the closet doors.
She glanced at the clock. Only a quarter to seven. She hoped he would be on time. What could she do for fifteen minutes? Her apartment was tidy, the plants were watered, and she had read the newspaper. Her eyes fell on the book on her bedside table. It would have to do as a distraction from fidgeting; she needed to get started on it anyway for the discussion group. As she reached for the book, however, the doorbell rang. She automatically put on her glasses and picked up her purse before heading for the front door.
A smiling Clay, resplendent in a gray pinstripe suit, greeted her as she opened the door.
“Hi, I hope you don’t mind, I’m a little early.” The truth was, he had been driving around for half an hour until he finally said to hell with it and just went to her. What was this woman doing to him? He knew he was always relentlessly prompt, and he didn’t like to rush his dates in their preparations, but he couldn’t wait to see Francie, ready or not. Now that he was standing in her entryway, he decided he had done exactly the right thing.
“You look wonderful,” he told her, sliding his gaze down and up the long length of her. When his eyes reached her face, however, he frowned. “Uh-uh,” he stated, shaking his head.
Francie blinked, and her face went from a welcoming smile to a look of puzzlement and wariness at his disapproval. “What’s the matter?”
“These,” Clay stated, reaching up to remove her glasses. “Did you forget our deal?”
“Oh. No, actually, I didn’t. I had them in my hand when you rang the bell and just put them on out of habit, I guess.”
“Well, okay, I’ll let you get away with it this time.” He handed the glasses back with a small bow and an expression of mock censure, and she turned to place them on a nearby table.
Clay looked at the wisps of hair just tickling the nape of her neck and contemplated kissing that spot and around to her delicate earlobe and . . . Giving himself an enormous mental shake, he dragged his mind back to the business at hand. “Do you think Tamara’s watching us?”
BOOK: Do You Believe in Magic?
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