Your Magic or Mine? (9 page)

“Control,” Marcus said again, returning to his thoughts before the cat incident. He needed to gain dominance, leadership of the situation, and reduce the tour to a minimum number of cities. Facing Ed by himself, however, might not give him the desired result. Ed was a manipulator par excellence. Look at how he’d played them today with those last two letters. He wouldn’t give in easily.

Besides, the discussion was significant to the whole practitioner community and to the future of magic. Marcus couldn’t back out entirely, and he certainly didn’t want to be considered an obstructionist. Truth be told, he was proud of his equation and to be making a meaningful contribution to spell-casting. How could he arrange matters for his good but still see that his formula received the fair hearing and subsequent research it deserved?

What if he and Morgan approached Ed with a united front? After all, they were in the same boat. Both had obligations and plans important to their careers. She didn’t want to traipse all over the country, either. If the two of them stood up to Ed with an agreed-upon plan, they should be able to push it through.

Yes, that idea offered distinct possibilities—and a chance of success. Smiling, he picked up the pace homeward. He had to arrange a meeting with Morgan. No matter his attraction to the woman and her lack of the same for him. He could control his body and his mind. He’d worry about his subconscious later. The little itch over his magic center returned, and he ignored it again. First he had to find the folder Ed had given them with the contact information.

Although he called Morgan’s office and left messages Thursday night and off and on the next day, Marcus wasn’t able to get her on the phone. On Friday afternoon he called Ed to see if the editor had her personal numbers since she wasn’t listed in the phone book. Ed supplied several numbers—a cell phone, a number in Austin for her condo, and another number for her farm phone.

Farm phone? Where did the woman live?

“Idiot, you should have done this earlier,” he muttered to himself as he sat down at his computer and signed on to the private practitioner Web site. A banner headline on the home page told him to click on the button for the latest in the discussion over spell-casting. Not what he needed to read. He went straight to the registry.

There she was: Gloriana Violet Morgan, twelfth level, associate professor, botanist, biological scientist, with all her degrees and achievements. A color photo showed off her curly dark-chocolate hair and emerald green eyes. He stared at the picture for a few seconds, then read her impressive curriculum vitae.

“You might be a level greater than I am,” he couldn’t help saying to the picture, “but I made professor first.” The knowledge brought him scant pleasure. He clicked on the contact-information button. The displayed data included the Austin condo address and phone number and the same for the Morgan Plant and Herb Farm. She must spend part of the week in the city and the rest on the farm. Probably did some research there also.

He clicked on the link for the farm. The home page introduction told him he was viewing the practitioner version; for customers with non-practitioner needs, he could click on another link. He perused the magic information. The Morgans grew certain plants to meet the exacting needs of their clients—for potions, salves, and certain spell requirements. They also offered a line of herbs, both fresh and dried, for chefs. He looked at the prices. They seemed steep to him, but what did he know about making potions? Or cooking, for that matter?

He looked at his watch. Six o’clock. Maybe he could catch her before dinner. He flipped open his phone and punched the numbers for her cell.

“Hello?” she answered, with a lot of noise in the background.

“This is Marcus Forscher,” he said.

“Who? Oh, wait a minute.” The noise got louder and sounded like the evening news, then faded. “Sorry about that. I had to turn the TV down. Who is this?”

“Marcus Forscher,” he repeated.

“Oh. Yes. What can I do for you?” Her voice went flat with the question. She didn’t seem pleased that he was her caller.

“I’ve been thinking about our situation with regard to Ed’s plans,” he stated. “From your expression yesterday, I gather you aren’t looking forward to the crazy circus either.”

He heard her sigh. “No, I’m not. I have research plans for the summer, and I’m sure you have the same. But I don’t see how we can call off the debates. The subject matter is too important.”

“I agree. However, I’d like to minimize the impact on us and exert some control over the process.”

“How can we do that?”

“Let’s meet tomorrow, come up with our own schedule, and present Ed with a fait accompli.”

“We can certainly try. Where do you want to meet? I’m out at the farm and wasn’t planning on coming back to Austin until Monday morning.”

She didn’t sound too happy about his suggestion—or it could simply be the idea of coming back to town. He could be accommodating—especially if it would influence her decision his way. “That’s okay,” he said, “I could come there.”

“Here?” Her voice went up as though she didn’t believe he’d come.

He heard another voice asking, “Who is that, Glori?”

“Hold on,” she said. She must have put her hand over the phone, but he could still hear what they were saying.

“It’s Marcus Forscher, Mother. He wants to come out here tomorrow to talk about Ed’s plans.”

“That’s a good idea. Ask him to lunch.”

“What?”

“You heard me, ask the man to lunch.”

After several seconds of silence, Morgan came back on the phone. “Look, why don’t you get here about eleven. We can talk and have lunch with my parents. They will want to hear our plans and might have some good recommendations.” She sounded more resigned than pleased to be making the invitation.

“Thank you. I’ll look forward to seeing your parents again.” He was going to ask for directions when Samson’s whining and glances from him to the door and back took his thoughts in another direction. Oh, what the hell, he might as well ask. “By the way, would it be all right if I brought my dog? He could use the fresh air.”

“Fine. Do you have a pencil? Here’s the directions.” She gave him explicit instructions and timing. “Oh, and one more thing? We dress very casually here.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Good-bye,” he said and hung up. Her last comment struck him as curious. Sure, his parents had taught him how to dress. “Looking like an ivory tower bum is not the way to instill confidence in business donors,” his father had said. His mother made sure he understood fine tailoring. What did Morgan think he wore on the weekend in the country? A suit and tie?

Gloriana hung up the phone and couldn’t help wiggling when a shiver ran up and down her back. She looked down at her arms. Goose bumps. She rubbed them vigorously.

What was it with her reaction to that man? Hearing his low, deep voice had been the last thing she expected when she answered the phone. She could still feel his words reverberating in her skull. They seemed to set off little zings of energy right in her magic center. She switched from rubbing her arms to rubbing her breastbone; it helped only marginally.

So, he wanted them to make their plans for the debate. Certainly a united front was a good idea. Ed would steamroller them if he could.

What would it be like to have Forscher visit the farm? Mr. Perfect on her turf? Staring at her with those icy blue eyes, studying her like she was a mathematical problem he was trying to solve.

She’d have to watch herself and not play those female games she despised—where the woman tried to jolly the guy out of his grim demeanor, tried to coax a smile, as if having a pleasant face would change the attitude behind it. Not that she did that normally, of course. No, he was going to have to take her as she was. If they were going to debate, they’d do it as equals.

Even though, except for his “cauldron-stirring, potion-making” crack, she had no complaints about his treatment of her, she’d still be on guard. The man was an academic in a predominantly male field, and she’d met plenty of others in that situation who clearly thought they were beings of a higher order. He might revert to type if she let him get away with it.

What kind of dog would he have? A man who obviously prized control would have an exceedingly well-trained animal, probably a German shepherd or maybe a Lab. What about a Border collie—no, too exuberant, too happy a personality. She looked over at Delilah lounging on the floor by the door. Certainly not a basenji with their unpredictability, mischievousness, and definitely minds of their own.

It would be interesting to have him here, she decided. See what lurked under his shell. Maybe she could get beneath that hard surface, loosen him up, see if he was all grim and unrelentingly hard or not so bad once he relaxed. See if she could melt the look in his eyes.

Although … why on earth would she want to do that? They didn’t have to be friends to work together. She wasn’t attracted to him, was she? How could she be?

A handsome man with practically golden hair and striking blue eyes was a fine thing to contemplate, even fantasize about, if she was in the mood. She’d never been one to squeal about movie stars; visual perfection gave no clue to the real person. She was more interested in a man’s views, his ideas, his aspirations, his down-to-earth common sense, and her attitude was evident in her choice of male friends and colleagues.

She hardly knew Marcus Forscher, and what she had seen and heard and read from him had not been conducive to wanting to know him better. They were never going to agree about the art and emotion of casting. She might be willing to agree to disagree, but he appeared to be incapable of seeing any value in her side.

No, she wasn’t attracted to him.

“Earth to Glori,” her mother said. “You’ve been standing there staring out the window for five minutes. Is he coming?”

“Oh. Yes, he’s coming.”

“Are you all right? You look a little confused.”

“I’m fine.” She rubbed her chest again. It had started itching when her mother spoke.

“Did a bug bite you? Do you need some ointment?”

“No, Mother, no bug. My clothes are chafing some. I’ll go call Daddy for dinner.”

“Yes, do that,” her mother said, stirring the pot of spaghetti sauce.

Gloriana wondered a moment at the speculative glance her mother gave her, but turned her attention to where her father might be. The itch had gone away.

Saturday morning precisely at eleven, Marcus pulled up in front of the ranch-style, sandy-colored brick house. He’d followed Morgan’s directions carefully, driving past the customers’ entry gate to the farm and coming in at the smaller road marked “private.” He parked in the graveled area next to the road, climbed out of the car, stretched, and looked around.

Fields of growing plants spread to all sides, while her front yard held a lush, dark green lawn, four large live oaks, a couple of bird feeders, and mulched beds bursting with multihued flowers. Two wooden picnic tables with benches and several lawn chairs sat in the shade of the trees. He could smell new-mown grass and some sort of floral fragrance—he didn’t have a clue what it was. Or what the flowers were, either, but they were pretty and cheerful.

Samson whined from the backseat of the BMW sedan.

“Okay, boy, let’s get you out of there.” Marcus unhitched the leash from the seat belt slot and removed the harness. “I know you don’t like the contraption,” he said while Samson jumped from the car and shook himself. “If we have a wreck, you won’t like flying through the window, either. Remember, behave yourself, or it’s back on the leash.”

Samson trotted beside him up to the front doorway, which held screen and wooden doors, both shut. Marcus rang the doorbell.

The curtain behind the glass fluttered and he caught a glimpse of dark curly hair. Morgan opened the door and looked at him through the screen mesh.

Every thought in his head flew away when their gazes met—and locked. He knew his mouth was open and words of greeting were forming in his throat, but he had to concentrate on breathing as his whole body came to attention.