Page 39 of Charmed
He’d been as restrained as could be over the past couple of weeks, resisting the temptation to be alone with her too often, keeping the mood light when they were alone. He realized now that his control had been as much for his sake as for hers.
She was painful to resist, even when they were standing outside in the sunlight, discussing Jessie or gardening, his work or hers.
But this, standing with her, the house empty and silent around them, the mysterious perfume of a woman’s art tormenting his senses, was almost too much to bear.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, but she was smiling, as if she knew.
“No, nothing … Ah, how are you?”
“I’m fine.” Her smile widened, softened. “And you?”
“Great.” He thought that if he were any more tense he’d turn to stone. “Fine.”
“I was going to make some tea. I’m sorry—I don’t have any coffee, but perhaps you’d like to join me.”
“Tea.” He let out a quiet breath. “Terrific.” He watched her walk to the stove, the cat winding around her legs like gray rope. She put the kettle on, then poured Quigley’s breakfast into his bowl. Crouching down, she stroked the cat as he ate. The robe slipped back like water, exposing one creamy leg.
“How’s the woodruff coming, and the hyssop?”
“Ah …”
She tossed her hair back as she looked up and smiled. “The herbs I gave you to transplant into your yard.”
“Oh, those. They look great.”
“I have some basil and some thyme potted in the greenhouse. You might want to take them along, leave them on a windowsill for a while. For cooking.” She rose when the kettle began to sputter. “I think you’ll find them better than store-bought.”
“That’d be great.” He was almost relaxed again, he thought. Hoped. It was soothing to watch her brew tea, heating the little china pot, spooning aromatic leaves out of a pale blue jar. He hadn’t known a woman could be restful and seductive all at once. “Jessie’s been watching those marigold seeds you gave her to plant like a hen watches an egg.”
“Just don’t let her overwater.” Setting the tea to steep, she turned. “Well?”
He blinked. “Well?”
“Boone, are you going to show me what’s behind your back or not?”
“Can’t fool you, can I?” He held out a box wrapped in bright blue paper. “Happy birthday.”
“How did you know it was my birthday?”
“Nash told me. Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I certainly am.” She tore the paper, revealing a box with the logo of Morgana’s shop imprinted on the lid.“Excellent choice,” she said. “You couldn’t possibly go wrong buying me something from Wicca.” She lifted the lid and, with a quiet sigh, drew out a delicate statue of a sorceress carved in amber.
The statue’s head was thrown back and exquisite tendrils of the dark gold hair tumbled down her cloak. Slender arms were raised, bent at the elbows, palms cupped and facing—mirroring the age-old position Ana had assumed over the chest that morning. In one elegant hand she held a small gleaming pearl, in the other a slender silver wand.
“She’s beautiful,” Ana murmured. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“I stopped by the shop last week, and Morgana had just gotten it in. It reminded me of you.”
“Thank you.” Still holding the statue, she lifted her free hand to his cheek. “You couldn’t have found anything more perfect.”
She leaned in, rising on her toes to touch her lips to his. She knew exactly what she was doing, just as she knew even as he returned the kiss that he was holding himself on a choke chain of control. Power, as fresh and cool as rainwater, washed into her.
This was what she had been waiting for, this was why she had spent the morning in that ancient female ritual of oils and creams and perfumes.
For him. For her. For their first time together.
There were knots of thorny vines ripping through his stomach, an anvil of need ringing frantically in his head. Though their lips were barely touching, her taste was drugging him, making ideas like restraint and control vague, unimportant concepts. He tried to draw back, but her arms wound silkily around him.
