Utterly Charming (18 page)

“Don’t lump me into a category with other women.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” she stopped herself. Then her eyes narrowed. “You’ve done this before.”

“Many times.”

“To women.”

“Of course.”

“You’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

He frowned at her. “That’s a hell of a way to say thank you.”

“For telling me I haven’t done anything in ten years.”

“Jesus, Nora,” he snapped. “You did. I made sure you had enough money to get by when Sancho gave you the escrow and when Max gave you that finder’s fee. You did the rest.”

“Success?” she asked.

“At the time, success to you was keeping the doors of your office open.”

He was right, but she didn’t want him to see it. The fight she had been spoiling for had finally arrived.

“And Max?”

“You were never going to ask him out, and he was so damn shy that I figured I’d give you both a nudge.”

“And see where it got us? Thousands of dollars in legal fees.”

“You can afford it.”

She glared at him.

He shrugged one shoulder. The gesture was winning, but she wasn’t in the mood to be won. “Didn’t you have some good years?” he asked.

They did. Those first years were fun. When they were still young attorneys, when they really didn’t have money or a decent place to live. The time that Darnell (damn that cat) had jumped on the counter and taken six bites out of the beef roast they were going to serve Max’s boss—six separate bites, from different parts of the roast—and Max and Nora had spent a giggly, frightened few moments figuring out how to carve the damn thing (the roast, not the cat) so that they could serve it without embarrassment. The trip to the coast that they couldn’t afford. The long Sunday afternoons watching old movies and eating ice cream, the afternoons that always ended in bed.

Blackstone was watching her too closely.

“What?” she asked. “A year or two is the duration of wishes these days?”

He grinned. “You did have some good times.”

“I’d have been stupid to marry Max if I didn’t. And I’m not stupid.” She pushed her chair away from her desk. As she did so, her gaze caught the stack of waiting messages. Even though she wanted to keep fighting with this man—she wanted to do anything to keep him in her office, fight or not—she needed to get to work. She had a lot to do, and not all of it concerned Emma.

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Ten years ago, you granted me three wishes, and now you’re using that fact like a trump card so that you can spend time with me.”

He shrugged again, only this time it was the other shoulder, and this gesture was more affecting than the first one.

“And you want to spend time with me because you find me charming and witty and utterly involving.”

“I do want to get to know you better.”

She nodded. “And keep tabs on Emma even though you won’t visit her.”

“Unfair, Nora.”

“No, it’s not.” She pulled her chair closer to the desk and went into tough attorney mode. “Frankly,
Mr.
Blackstone, I’m very disappointed in you. I thought you were smooth and convincing. I thought you could charm the pants off a snake.” Then she paused. “Although, come to think of it, I never did see pants on your snake. What happened to it, anyway?”

“It died,” he said flatly.

“Sorry. Heartbreaking.”

“Yes, actually.”

She wasn’t going for the sympathy. She couldn’t muster any for a snake anyway. “You have been obvious and lame and insulting this morning. If you wanted something from me, you should have asked for it—”

“I did,” he said. “Yesterday I asked for time with Emma.”

“See?” Nora said. “I knew this was about Emma.”

“And this morning I’ve asked for time with you. I am asking for what I want.”

“In a way that guarantees that you won’t get it.”

“You would prefer me to charm you like I’ve been charming the efficient Ruthie? Hmm? When I came in here, you berated me for doing that very thing.”

“Ruthie was unsuspecting.”

He leaned closer to her. Leather again. Why did she find the scent of leather so sexy? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was that faint scent beneath it, that touch of him.

“People who are being charmed aren’t supposed to know it,” he said. “That’s part of the charm.”

When she didn’t respond, he leaned closer. If she raised her fingers, she could touch the skin on his face. She wondered if it would be as smooth as the skin on his hand had been, if it would be as warm, if it would feel as familiar as her own.

“I could manipulate you, Nora, if that’s what you want. Silly me,” he said, “I thought you were the kind of woman who liked to think for herself, who appreciated a man for what he is.”

“What are you, Mr. Blackstone?” She kept her voice cool, which ultimately amazed her, considering how jumpy her insides were. “A man who seduces women? A man who lies to women? A man who considers women possessions?”

“Not fair.”

“Not fair? What are you then?”

“A man who thought he had found someone he could talk to,” he said. “A man who is profoundly disappointed.”

Then he blinked, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just said, and leaned back. He shook his head once and stood.

“Mr. Blackstone?”

He turned. “You know, I’ve never met anyone who pisses me off like you do.”

“Except Ealhswith.”

“Not even Ealhswith. I just hate her. You—I come in here, thinking I can have a rational discussion, and I end up yelling like a berserker.”

“A what?”

“A soldier, you know, one who has—the word berserk, ah, you know—they were prevalent after the Hundred Years War—oh, hell.” He spread his arms out. “I am babbling. I haven’t babbled in centuries. Damn, woman, what are you doing to me?”

“Saying no,” she said sweetly. “Apparently you people aren’t used to it.”

He stared at her for a moment, and as he did, an entire symphony of emotions played in his eyes. With each mood they seemed to change color, from silver to gray to blue to black to brown and back to silver again. Nora watched the changes, mesmerized.

“You did say no, didn’t you?” he said, almost to himself. “And I’m not listening. I haven’t listened at all, which is also not like me. I’m usually quite a good listener. When it doesn’t matter.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and bowed his head. She could no longer see those marvelous eyes, and she wanted to.

“You’ve said no,” he continued, “and Emma has said go away, and Sancho told me years ago to change my attitude toward the coffin and Ealhswith, and I haven’t listened to a one of you.”

He raised his head. His eyes were so pale, she almost couldn’t see them. “Well, I’m listening now.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going. It’s been a real pleasure knowing you, Miss—Mrs.—Ms. Barr. I promise I will never charm your secretary again.”

He stared at her for a moment, and when she said nothing, he bowed. The movement was sweet and elegant, his right arm sweeping out as if he were removing his hat with a flourish. She could imagine him in sixteenth century French clothing—the ruffles and feathers of
The Three Musketeers
fame—and it suited him as well as the jeans and T-shirt did now. She started to reach for him, but he rose, turned, and left her office so quickly that she was still in half a movement as her door slammed closed.

She stared at it for a moment. She had told him to leave, but she hadn’t wanted him to. She wasn’t ready for him to walk out of her life like that. But that was what she had asked. That was what she had demanded.

She almost ran after him, but her own pride stopped her. What if that was what he wanted? What if this were still part of the game he had played with her from the beginning? Three wishes and sleeping beauties and evil stepmothers.

And magic. Always magic.

She sat back down at her desk. She would take care of Emma first. Then she would worry about Blackstone.

The thought seemed rational, and it should have calmed her. But it didn’t. As she picked up her stack of messages, she found herself worrying, wondering, doubting she would ever see him again.

***

Blackstone drove himself back to the restaurant, taking side streets and gunning the Porsche, daring a cop to pull him over. No cop did, and he was disappointed. He wanted to fight with someone, get arrested, and then reverse the whole thing as if nothing had happened.

But no one seemed to notice his speed. No one except an elderly woman who had been walking her black poodle. She had shaken a finger at him as he passed.

Sancho hadn’t been in Ruthie’s office when Blackstone left. The efficient Ruthie had blinked at him with a bit of confusion when he asked about Sancho and had said in what Blackstone knew was not Ruthie’s normal voice, “He disappeared.”

In front of her, probably. To freak her out. Sancho was like that. Blackstone had never entirely gotten the point of unsettling the mortals.

Except for Nora, of course.

And she appeared utterly unflappable.

He didn’t know where that bit about the three wishes had come from. He had actually reminded himself, as he got up that morning, not to mention them to her. The last time he had granted a woman three wishes, she had nearly torn his eyes out. That had been about 1750, and he had vowed never to do such a thing again.

Apparently resolutions only lasted 250 years.

He pulled the car into his private space behind the restaurant and got out. Three other cars were in the lot. He unlocked the kitchen door and entered to the smell of sautéed garlic and onions mixing with the fresh scent of cilantro. Two of his chefs, dressed in their regulation whites, were hovering over a large soup kettle, discussing the fine art of spices. His sous chef was working on a roux at the far stove.

Blackstone had designed this kitchen himself. It had several stove tops, half a dozen grills, and three restaurant-size dishwashers. It also had seven small ovens and two large ovens, an emergency microwave, which he had banished to the back, and several refrigerators, including one large enough to stuff six men inside. The freezer, which stood to one side, filled a room all on its own.

Sancho was standing beside the baker, pulling apart a just-completed loaf of sourdough. Blackstone’s baker, a woman who had won more contests than the rest of the staff combined, was glaring at Sancho, pastry scissors clutched in her left hand.

“You know I don’t like anyone eating in the kitchen,” Blackstone said, taking the loaf from Sancho.

“Well, your maître goon won’t let me in the dining room,” Sancho said.

“Then maybe you should take that as a hint.”

“Touchy, touchy.” Sancho snatched the bread back. “I take it the meeting didn’t go well.”

“That woman is the most stubborn, difficult—” Blackstone stopped himself. His staff was staring at him. He never lost his temper—at least, not over a woman. Occasionally over a poorly created dish. But never over a woman. “Come into my office.”

He led Sancho past the wire racks filled with pots, pans, and simple white dishes to the closet-size room he used as an office. On one corner of the desk sat a computer, its screen covered with tiny fish, and a phone sat on the other corner. In between were order forms, index cards filled with his scrawled recipes, and bills. Blackstone shoved them aside and leaned against the desk.

“She won’t let me see Emma,” he said.

“She won’t let me see her either,” Sancho said. “She has a good point.”

“Does she?” Blackstone asked. “It seems to me that she’s just being stubborn.”

Sancho grinned. “Then you’re well matched.”

“I was talking about Nora.”

“So was I.”

They glared at each other for a moment. Then Blackstone broke the glance. “I didn’t expect her to be so much trouble.”

“Nora or Emma?”

“Both,” Blackstone said.

Sancho shook his head. “I’ve been trying to warn you. You’ve been handling this all wrong. Right from the start.”

Blackstone pushed off the desk and wished there was more space in the office. He didn’t want to be this close to Sancho. “I was a young magician. I didn’t know the right spells.”

“We’ve been over this,” Sancho said. “I’m not talking about the first spell. I’m talking about the fight with Ealhswith.”

“You think I should have left Emma with her?”

“No,” Sancho said. “But you have to understand why Emma’s a bit peeved.”

Blackstone ran a hand through his hair. “I do understand.” He sighed. “Nora got through to me on that.”

Sancho’s smile widened. It was as if he had a secret he didn’t want to share with Blackstone. “Nora’s pretty special, isn’t she?”

“I’m promised to Emma.”

“You keep saying that.” Sancho crossed his arms. “It’s almost like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“The Fates said she was my soul mate.”

“Did they?”

Blackstone sighed. He wished they hadn’t, but they had. “Yes, that’s what they said.”

“Sometimes I think your memory is faulty.”

“And sometimes I think you want the impossible from me.” Blackstone had to work to keep his voice low. “I need your help getting Emma away from Nora.”

“I don’t think it’ll work.”

“But Ealhswith’ll go after them.”

“Probably,” Sancho said.

“And they’re undefended.”

“I think if the illustrious Ms. Barr heard you say that, she’d show you just how defended she is.”

Blackstone bowed his head. He had been admiring her courage just the day before. He knew she was strong. And she had gotten to him this morning. She had shown him how he hadn’t listened—to anyone. He had created a part of this mess, as surely as Ealhswith had.

Maybe it was time to start listening, then.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked softly.

Sancho’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected to be consulted for advice. “You’re asking me?”

“I think you’re the only other person in the room.”

“Well.” Sancho cleared his throat. “I think you should do what the ladies want.”

“I should leave them alone?”

Sancho nodded.

“But Ealhswith—”

“Will do something, and eventually it’ll be too much for Nora, and she’ll come to you for help. You can be her white knight.”