Sticks and Stone (7 page)

“Damn.” Now that he thought about it, he recalled carrying
the jacket over his arm as he walked through the woods, his blood warmed by the
Irish
Whiskey
.

 
“Are you in such
a hurry to be leaving?”

“No, it’s not that. I wanted to give you my business
card. It has my office number, and I’d give you my cell phone number, too, so
you can call me no matter where I am.
Except the cell phone
was in the pocket of the jacket.”

She lifted the pants off the peg, and held them out to
him. The wool blend fabric was stiff with dried mud and blood.

He took the pants and stared at them, momentarily at a
loss. “I can’t wear these.”

“Then you’ll be walking through the forest naked.”

Grunting, he stepped into the pants, grimacing as bits
of the forest floor flaked off against his legs. He picked the shirt up off the
floor and shook it out, revealing the full extent of its tatters. He tossed it
onto the floor again. “That’s useless.”

“You’ll have your jacket to wear again soon enough,” she
reminded him. “I’ll lead you back to the dryad’s clearing.”

She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, wrapped her
stained cloak around her shoulders, and led him into the forest. She moved
silently, discouraging any attempts to talk to her, so he just watched her
lithe body swaying beneath her cloak.

The mere sight of her, even shrouded in that cloak, was
enough to make his blood pulse. There were so many more things he wanted to
explore.
Were the backs of her knees ticklish or would
kissing her there leave her dripping with excitement?
Would she gasp and
moan in pleasure if he buried his face between her legs and loved her with his
mouth and tongue? Would her breasts bounce and sway with her energetic
movements as she straddled his hips and rode his cock? Now that she knew his
name, would she scream it as she came?

She stepped into a clearing and swept her arm out to
gesture at the leaf-strewn ground. “This is it.”

He recognized the
wych
elm at
once. Eileen’s crystal still hung from the branches, and he’d swear the tree
was sulking. That was the only explanation for the pronounced
droop of
the branches.

Skirting widely around the tree, in case the dryad
managed to break free of the charm binding her and lunged for him, he searched
the surrounding forest. His jacket was tossed over the lowest branch of a
neighboring sycamore.

He pulled it from the tree, then dug in the inside
pocket. After pulling out a business card and a pen, he scribbled his cell
phone number on the back, and handed the card to Eileen.

For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t take it, but then
she reached forward and plucked it from his hand.

“I’m not promising I’ll call.”

He smiled. “You’ll call.”

“Arrogant American!”

She turned and stalked away. Dermot watched her go, her
long, swinging strides reminding him of her strong legs, locked around him.
When the forest had swallowed her, he sighed and took out his cell phone. He
punched in the number of his driver.

“Meet me at the eastern entrance to the woods in half an
hour,” he ordered.

“Your luggage has already been loaded in the limousine.
Would you like to leave directly for the airport?”

“Unload it. I’ll need to go back to the manor and shower
before I can be seen anywhere.”

He snapped the phone closed before his driver could ask
any more questions. Shrugging into his coat, he stared for a moment at the last
place he’d seen Eileen. Then he sighed, and opened his phone again. He’d never
expected to use the GPS feature. He’d never expected a leprechaun to grant him
his heart’s deepest desire, either. He needed to learn to broaden his
expectations.

Whistling softly, Dermot headed for his rendezvous.

“Arrogant American,” Eileen muttered under her breath as
she stalked back to her cottage. He expected her to call him, did he? And drive
up to Dublin for a quickie at his convenience?

Her anger softened, her steps slowing and her lips
curving at the memory of their lovemaking. No, it would never be a quickie with
him. That she could be sure of.

“Dermot.”
She whispered his
name, enjoying the feel of it in her mouth.
Almost as much as
she’d enjoyed the feel of him in her mouth.

A flush of heat swept over her, her breasts tingling and
moisture gathering between her thighs. By the circle, the man was a fantastic
lover.

She smiled, fingering the card he’d insisted she take.
Maybe she’d call him after all.

She glanced at the card, instantly recognizing the logo
of a globe chiseled from granite.
Stone International
Industries, makers of applesauce, zippers, and everything in between.
Stone.

She sank to her knees in the leaf-strewn path. Now she
knew why his face had looked so familiar. It had been staring at her from the
magazine racks on her last trip to the market.

Dermot Stone, multimillionaire son and heir presumptive
to Randolph Stone’s multi-billion dollar empire, had been declared the most
eligible bachelor of the year. A collage of photos had shown him on the arms of
models, actresses, and beautiful women from the wealthy elite.

Eileen knew she was pretty enough not to scare the
livestock, but certainly not in the same league as the women he normally dated.
What could he possibly find of interest in her?
Her mind and
spirit?
He hadn’t had a chance to discover much of either. They’d barely
spoken to each other.

Then she knew. He’d never told any of those other women
how he liked his sex. He wouldn’t have told her, if he hadn’t been desperate
for release from the dryad’s spell. Now she was the only woman he knew who
could give him what he wanted. She could be a toothless hag with the
interpersonal skills of a filth-covered hermit, and he wouldn’t care, as long
as she slapped his ass while his cock was filling her.

She crumpled his card in her fist. She wouldn’t be
calling him.
Ever.

* * * * *

Dermot frowned at the numbers scrolling by on his
screen. It was an enticing proposition.

He shifted position, trying not to think about his
enticing Irish witch. It seemed that everything he did lately reminded him of
her.

With his usual thoroughness, he’d read her first Silver
Moon book. She’d described a ritual of renewal performed naked in the woods.
The image that had sprung to his mind at her words was so arousing, he’d had to
stop reading and relieve his massive hard-on.

Dermot sighed and forced his attention back to the
report on his screen. Silver Moon publishing was a lucrative business
opportunity. The returns weren’t quite up to his standards, but he could easily
trim costs in warehousing and transportation by piggybacking on other Stone
investments.

Then there was the matter of increasing the value of
their assets. With her beauty, self-possession, and quick wit, Eileen was a
natural for the talk show circuit. They could start her out on some of the
smaller networks that catered to women’s issues—much of the resurgence of
interest in witchcraft was part of a women’s empowerment groundswell. Slanting
the material to attract potential buyers would be trivially simple. The viewers
would love her. And they’d become ardent buyers of Eileen’s books.

The fact that many network studios were located in
Manhattan, where his primary office was also located, was an added bonus.
There’d be many hours surrounding her television appearances during which Eileen
would be at loose ends, and in need of companionship. Companionship he was
eager to supply.

They wouldn’t have to spend all their time in bed. There
were plenty of places he’d love to take her, showing her his favorite parts of
the city. They’d dine at his favorite restaurants, listen to music or dance at
his favorite clubs, maybe even go to a show or a museum if she was interested.

He smiled, anticipating the leisurely process of getting
to know everything that interested her. Everything she enjoyed.
Everything that gave her pleasure.

He absent-mindedly caressed the casing of his computer
with his thumb, stopping as soon as he realized what he was doing. Instead, he
reached for the phone.

He’d waited for her to call him. He’d waited two weeks,
longer than he was accustomed to waiting for anything. So now he’d take matters
into his own hands.

* * * * *

Eileen shook her
head,
certain
she’d heard her agent incorrectly. Switching the phone to her other ear, she
asked, “Would you repeat that, please?”

“Silver Moon is considering booking you on the talk show
circuit for your next book’s release, and needs to know if you’d be comfortable
discussing your beliefs on the air.”

That’s what she’d thought he’d said. “Why? They never
showed any interest in publicity before.”

“Some shakeup in the company, I hear. The new management
wants to increase the value of the company’s assets, and that means building
their lead author’s name recognition.”

“Stone.”

After a pause even longer than the usual transoceanic
delay, her agent said, “That’s what the rumor mill says. But how’d you hear
that all the way in Ireland?”

 
“Never
you mind
. Tell them I’ll be coming to discuss it with them,
if they’ll be paying my way.”

Although he tried, her agent couldn’t convince her to
give a more definitive answer. He promised to relay her response and hung up.

Eileen put down the phone and stared out her kitchen
window at the trees beyond. She’d wondered how Dermot Stone would react to her
not calling him. Now she knew.

She’d called him arrogant before, but she hadn’t
comprehended the magnitude of his arrogance. He was willing to buy her
publisher—or at least invest heavily in the company—to get her to come to him.

A horrible suspicion rose in her mind, souring her
stomach. Did he expect to buy her along with the company? Was the television
offer supposed to be the incentive to lure her into his bed?

She sighed. No. That didn’t seem like Dermot’s style.

Her gaze wandered over the pile of magazines stacked on
the kitchen table; lifestyle magazines discussing his eligible bachelor status,
entertainment magazines with photos of the premier events he’d attended, and
business magazines analyzing a merger between one of his companies and the
offshoot of a French conglomerate.

She recalled one of the quotes he’d given the business
magazine. “I have no desire to win every game. But I only play when I can be
confident of winning.”

He’d been referring to his skill at picking underrated
companies in which to invest, returning 80% of them to profitability within
five years. He had been scoffed at by the business press for turning down
lucrative investment deals, only to have his instincts proven correct two or
three years later. Some companies were now hesitant about approaching him as a
possible investor, fearing that if he rejected their offer, no one else would
be willing to risk the investment.

But his words now haunted Eileen with a different
meaning. He would not play until he was confident of winning. Buying her publisher
was surely the opening gambit of his play. So what was it that he hoped to win?

Feeling suddenly restless, she grabbed her cloak and
headed for a walk in the woods. Without her conscious volition, her feet led
her to the dryad’s clearing. Her ward stone glittered blue and white in the
sunlight, now just a pretty trinket twisting in the light breeze.

The dryad stepped out of the
wych
elm, her arms crossed beneath her breasts.

“Is it you, then?” she asked in Gaelic.

“Aye.
It’s sorry I am to
be disturbing you,” Eileen answered in the same tongue. “I was only just out
for a bit of a wander.”

Reassured that Eileen wasn’t going to trap her inside
again, the dryad slipped back into her tree. Eileen felt a brief surge of hot
emotion, demanding the tree woman be chained within her elm with no hope of
ever escaping. But that was foolish. The dryad’s binding that prohibited her
from enchanting mortal men to their deaths had been broken by a leprechaun.
Restoring the binding was sufficient action. To punish her further simply for
being what she was would be wrong.

When Eileen had confronted the dryad after stopping her
attack on Dermot, she had forced the dryad to seek refuge within her tree and
then trapped her there. But that had been a matter of expediency. She’d needed
to make certain the dryad wasn’t enticing anyone else to her tree while Eileen
was caring for her victim. After Dermot left, she’d released the dryad and
reset the binding to the proper level, allowing the creature her freedom, so
long as she caused no harm.