Page 9 of Captivated
“Close enough.” He let the amulet drop. “It interests me how ordinarily intelligent people allow themselves to get caught up in the supernatural.”
“Isn’t that how you make your living?”
“Exactly. And, speaking of my living, I figure you and I started off wrong. How about a clean slate?”
It was hard to be annoyed with an attractive man on a beautiful day. “How about it?”
He thought it might be wise to take the conversation where he wanted by way of the back door. “You know a lot about flowers and stuff?”
“A few things.” She shifted to finish planting a fresh pot of lemon balm.
“Maybe you can tell me what I’ve got in my yard and what I should do about it?”
“Hire a gardening service,” she said. Then she relented and smiled. “I suppose I might find time to take a look.”
“I’d really appreciate it.” He brushed at a smear of dirt on her chin. “You really could help me with the script, Morgana. It’s no problem getting things out of books—anyone can do that. What I’m looking for is adifferent slant, something more personal. And I—”
“What is it?”
“You have stars in your eyes,” he murmured. “Little gold stars... like sunlight on a midnight sea. But you can’t have the sun at midnight.”
“You can have anything if you know how to get it.” Those fabulous eyes held his. He couldn’t have looked away to save his soul. “Tell me what you want, Nash.”
“To give people a couple of enjoyable hours. To know they’ll forget problems, reality, everything, when they step into my world. A good story’s like a door, and you can go through it whenever you need to. After you’ve read it or seen it or heard it, you can still go back through it. Once it’s yours, it’s always yours.”
He broke off, startled and embarrassed. This kind of philosophizing didn’t fit in with his carefree image. He’d had expert interviewers dig at him for hours without unearthing a statement as simple and genuine as that. And all she’d done was ask.
“And, of course, I want to make pots of money,” he added, trying to grin. His head felt light, his skin too warm.
“I don’t see that one desire has to be exclusive of the other. There have been storytellers in my family from the fairy days down to my mother. We understand the value of stories.”
Perhaps that was why she hadn’t dismissed him from the outset. She respected what he did. That, too, was in her blood.
“Consider this.” She leaned forward, and he felt the punch of something in his gut, something that went beyond her beauty. “If I agree to help you, I refuse to let you fall back on the lowest common denominator. The old crone, cackling as she mixes henbane in the cauldron.”
He smiled. “Convince me.”
“Be careful what you dare, Nash,” she murmured, rising. “Come inside. I’m thirsty.”
Since he was no longer worried about being chewed up by her guard dog, who was now strolling contentedly beside them, Nash took time to admire her house. He already knew that many of the homes alongthe Monterey Peninsula were extraordinary and unique. He’d bought one himself. Morgana’s had the added allure of age and grace.
It was three stories of stone, turreted and towered—to suit a witch, he supposed. But it was neither Gothic nor grim. Tall, graceful windows flashed in the sunlight, and climbing flowers crept up the walls to twine and tangle in lacy ironwork. Carved into the stone were winged fairies and mermaids, adding charm. Lovely robed figures served as rainspouts.
Interior scene, night, he mused. Inside the topmost tower of the old stone house by the sea, the beautiful young witch sits in a ring of candles. The room is shadowy, with the light fluttering over the faces of statues, the stems of silver goblets, a clear orb of crystal. She wears a sheer white robe open to the waist. A heavy carvedamulet hangs between the swell of her breasts. A deep hum seems to come from the stones themselves as she lifts two photographs high in the air.
The candles flicker. A wind rises within the closed room to lift her hair and ripple the robe. She chants. Ancient words, in a low, smoldering voice. She touches the photos to the candle flame.... No, scratch that. She... yeah, she sprinkles the photos with the glowing liquid from a cracked blue bowl. A hiss of steam. The humming takes on a slow, sinuous beat. Her body sways with it as she places the photos face-to-face, laying them on a silver tray. A secret smile crosses her face as the photos fuse together.
Fade out.
He liked it, though he figured she could add a bit more color to the casting of a love spell.
Content with his silence, Morgana took him around the side of the house, where the sound of water on rock rumbled and the cypress grove, trees bent and gnarled by time and wind, stood watch. They crossed a stone patio shaped like a pentagram, at whose top point stood a brass statue of a woman. Water gurgled in a tiny pool at her feet.
“Who’s she?” Nash asked.
“She has many names.” Moving to the statue, Morgana took up a small ladle, dipped it in the clear pool. She sipped, then poured the rest onto the ground for the goddess. Without a word, she crossed the patio againand entered a sunny, spotless kitchen. “Do you believe in a creator?”
The question surprised him. “Yeah, sure. I suppose.” He shifted uncomfortably while she walked across a white tiled floor to the sink to rinse her hands. “This—your witchcraft—it’s a religious thing?”
