Page 45 of Captivated
For the first time in his adult life, he thought he might blush. So he kissed her instead. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
With a light laugh, she settled back. “I’d hate to disagree with you. So I won’t.”
He ran an idle hand down the braid on her shoulder. It felt tremendously good, he realized, just to sit here like this at the end of the day with someone who was important to him. “Why don’t you stroke my ego and tell me what you liked about it?”
She held out her glass so that he could top off her champagne. “I doubt your ego needs stroking, but I’ll tell you anyway.”
“Take your time. I wouldn’t want you to leave anything out.”
“All of your movies have texture. Even when there’s blood splashing around or something awful scratching at the window, there’s a quality that goes beyond being spooked or shocked. In this—though you’re bound to setsome hearts pumping with that graveyard scene, and that business in the attic—you go a step further.” She shifted to face him. “It’s not just a story of witchcraft and power or of conjuring forces, good and bad. It’s about people, their basic humanity. Of believing in wonderful things and trusting your heart. It’s a kind of funny celebration of being different, even when it’s difficult. In the end, even though there’s terror and pain and heartbreak, there is love. That’s what we all want.”
“You didn’t mind that I had Cassandra casting spells with graveyard dirt or chanting over a cauldron?”
“Artistic license,” Morgana said with a lifted brow. “I suppose I found it possible to overlook your creativity. Even when she was prepared to sell her soul to the devil to save Jonathan.”
With a shrug, he drained his glass. “If Cassandra had the power of good, the story would hardly have enough punch if she didn’t have at least one match with the power of evil. You see, there are some basic commandments of horror. Even though that’s not exactly what this turned out to be, I think they still apply.”
“Ultimate good against ultimate evil?” she suggested.
“That’s one. The innocent must suffer,” he added. “Then there’s the rite of passage. That same innocent must spill blood.”
“A manhood thing,” Morgana said dryly.
“Or womanhood. I’m no sexist. And good must, through great sacrifice, triumph.”
“Seems fair.”
“There’s one more. My personal favorite.” He skimmed a fingertip up her neck. Chills chased it. “The audience should wonder, and keep wondering, if whatever evil that’s been vanquished slinked free again after the final fade-out.”
She pursed her lips. “We all know evil’s always slinking free.”
“Exactly.” He grinned. “The same way we all wonder, from time to time, if there really is something drooling in the closet at night. After the lights go out. And we’re alone.” He nipped at her earlobe. “Or what’s really rustling the bushes outside the cellar window or skulking in the shadows, ready, waiting, to ooze out and—”
When the doorbell rang, she jolted. Nash laughed. Morgana swore.
“Why don’t I get it?” he suggested.
She made a stab at dignity and smoothed down her skirt. “Why don’t you?”
When he walked out, she let go with a quick shudder. He was good, she admitted. So damn good that she, who knew better, had been sucked right in. She was still deciding whether to forgive him or not when Nashcame back with a tall, gangly man hefting a huge tray. The man wore a white tux and a red bow tie. Stitched over his chest pocket was Chez Maurice.
“Set it right on the table, Maurice.”
“It’s George, sir,” the man said in a sorrowful voice.
“Right.” Nash winked at Morgana. “Just dish everything right on up.”
“I’m afraid this will take me a moment or two.”
“We’ve got time.”
“The mocha mousse should remain chilled, sir,” George pointed out. Nash realized that the poor man had a permanent apology stuck in his throat.
“I’ll take it into the kitchen.” Morgana rose to take the container. As she left them, she heard George murmuring sadly that the radicchio had been off today and they’d had to make do with endive.
“He lives for food,” Nash explained when Morgana returned a few moments later. “It makes him weep to think how careless some of the new delivery boys are with the stuffed mushrooms. Bruising them heedlessly.”
“Heathens.”
