Page 11 of Captivated
Sympathy vanished like a puff of smoke. “Dabbling?” she repeated, eyes slitted.
“I may want to have a prologue, you know, showing how the main character got involved.”
He was paying less attention to her than to the room itself, the atmosphere. As he worked out his thoughts, he paced. Not nervously, not even restlessly, but in a way that made it obvious that he was taking stock of everything he could see.
“Maybe she gets pushed around by the kid next door and turns him into a frog,” he continued, oblivious to the fact that Morgana’s jaw had tensed. “Or she runs into some mysterious woman who passes on the power. Ikind of like that.” As he roamed, he played with ideas, slender threads that could be woven into whole cloth for a story. “I’m just not sure of the angle I want to use, so I figured we’d start by playing it straight. You tell me what started you off—books you read, whatever. Then I can twist it to work as fiction.”
She was going to have to watch her temper, and watch it carefully. When she spoke, her voice was soft, and carried a ring that made him stop in the center of the rug. “I was born with elvish blood. I am a hereditary witch, and my heritage traces back to Finn of the Celts. My power is a gift passed on from generation to generation. When I find a man of strength, we’ll make children between us, and they will carry it beyond me.”
He nodded, impressed. “That’s great.” So she didn’t want to play it straight, he thought. He’d humor her. The stuff about elvish blood had terrific possibilities. “So, when did you first realize you were a witch?”
The tone of his voice had her temper slipping a notch. The room shook as she fought it back. Nash snatchedher off the couch so quickly that she didn’t have time to protest. He’d pulled her toward the doorway when the shaking stopped.
“Just a tremor,” he said, but he kept his arms around her. “I was in San Francisco during the last big one.” Because he felt like an idiot, he gave her a lopsided grin. “I haven’t been able to be casual about a shake since.”
So, he thought it was an earth tremor. Just as well, Morgana decided. There was absolutely no reason for her to lose her temper, or to expect him to accept her for what she was. In any case, it was sweet, the way he’d jumped to protect her.
“You could move to the Midwest.”
“Tornados.” Since he was here, and so was she, he saw no reason to resist running his hands up her back. He enjoyed the way she leaned into the stroke, like a cat.
Morgana tilted her head back. Staying angry seemed a waste of time when her heart gave such an eager leap. It was perhaps unwise of them to test each other this way. But wisdom was often bland. “The East Coast,” she said, letting her own hands skim up his chest.
“Blizzards.” He nudged her closer, wondering for just an instant why she seemed to meld with him so perfectly, body to body.
“The South.” She twined her arms around his neck, watching him steadily through a fringe of dark lashes.
“Hurricanes.” He tipped the hat off her head so that her hair tumbled down to fill his hands like warm silk. “Disasters are everywhere,” he murmured. “Might as well stay put and deal with the one that’s yours.”
“You won’t deal with me, Nash.” She brushed her lips teasingly over his. “But you’re welcome to try.”
He took her mouth confidently. He didn’t consider women a disaster.
Perhaps he should have.
It was more turbulent than any earthquake, more devastating than any storm. He didn’t feel the ground tremble or hear the wind roar, but he knew the moment her lips parted beneath his that he was being pulled in by some irresistible force that man had yet to put a name to.
She was molded against him, soft and warm as melted wax. If he’d believed in such things, he might havesaid her body had been fashioned for just this purpose—to mate perfectly with his. His hands streaked under her loose shirt to race over the smooth skin of her back, to press her even closer, to make sure she was real and not some daydream, some fantasy.
He could taste the reality, but even that had some kind of dreamy midnight flavor. Her mouth yielded silkily under his, even as her arms locked like velvet cords around his neck.
A sound floated on the air, something she murmured, something he couldn’t understand. Yet he thought he sensed surprise in the whisper, and perhaps a little fear, before it ended with a sigh.
She was a woman who enjoyed the tastes and textures of a man. She had never been taught to be ashamed of taking pleasure, with the right man, at the right time. She hadn’t ever learned to fear her own sexuality, but to celebrate it, cherish it, and respect it.
And yet now, for the first time, she felt the sly quickening of fear with a man.
The simplicity of a kiss filled a basic need. But there was nothing simple in this. How could it be simple, when excitement and unease were dancing together along her skin?
She wanted to believe that the power came from her, was in her. She was responsible for this whirlwind of sensation that surrounded them. Conjuring was often as quick as a wish, as strong as the will.
But the fear was there, and she knew it came from the knowledge that this was something beyond her reach, out of her control, past her reckoning. She knew that spells could be cast on the strong, as well as the weak. To break a charm took care. And action.
She slid out of his arms, moving slowly, deliberately. Not for an instant would she let him see that he had had power over her. She closed a hand over her amulet and felt steadier.
Nash felt like the last survivor of a train wreck. He jammed his hands in his pockets to keep himself from grabbing her again. He didn’t mind playing with fire—he just liked to be sure he was the one holding the match. He knew damn well who’d been in charge of that little experiment, and it wasn’t Nash Kirkland.
“You play around with hypnosis?” he asked her.
