Page 9 of Charmed
“Oh, he tells stories. Really good stories, about witches and fairy princesses and dragons and magic fountains. I get to help sometimes. I have to go because tomorrow’s my first day of school and he said I wasn’t supposed to stay too long. Did I?”
“No.” Ana bent down to kiss her cheek. “You can come back anytime.”
“Bye!” And she was off, gamboling across the lawn, with the dog racing behind her.
“I’ve never been more charmed, or more worn out,” Morgana said as she climbed into her car. “The girl’s a delightful whirlwind.” Smiling out at Ana, she jiggled her keys. “And the father is certainly no slouch.”
“I imagine it’s difficult, a man raising a little girl alone.”
“From the one glimpse I had, he looked up to it.” She gunned the engine. “Interesting that he writes stories. About witches and dragons and such. Sawyer, you said?”
“Yes.” Ana blew tousled hair out of her eyes. “I guess he must be Boone Sawyer.”
“It might intrigue him to know you’re Bryna Donovan’s niece—seeing as they’re in the same line of work. That is, if you wanted to intrigue him.”
“I don’t,” Ana said firmly.
“Ah, well, perhaps you already have.” Morgana put the car in reverse. “Blessed be, cousin.”
Ana struggled with a frown as Morgana backed out of the drive.
***
After driving to Sebastian’s to give his horses their morning feeding and grooming, Ana spent most of the next morning delivering her potpourris, her scented oils, her medicinal herbs and potions. Others were boxed and packaged for shipping. Though she had several local customers for her wares, including Morgana’s shop, Wicca, a great portion of her clientele was outside the area.
Anastasia’s was successful enough to suit her. The business she’d started six years before satisfied her needs and ambitions and allowed her the luxury of working at home. It wasn’t for money. The Donovan fortune, and the Donovan legacy, kept both her and her family comfortably off. But, like Morgana with her shop and Sebastian with his many businesses, Ana needed to be productive.
She was a healer. But it was impossible to heal everyone. Long ago she had learned it was destructive toattempt to take on the ills and pains of the world. Part of the price of her power was knowing there was pain she could not alleviate. She did not reject her gift. She used it as she thought best.
Herbalism had always fascinated her, and she accepted the fact that she had the touch. Centuries before, she might have been the village wisewoman—and that never failed to amuse her. In today’s world, she was a businesswoman who could mix a bath oil or an elixir with equal skill.
If she added a touch of magic, it was hers to add.
And she was happy, happy with the destiny that had been thrust on her and with the life she had made from it.
Even if she’d been miserable, she thought, this day would have lifted her spirits. The beckoning sun, the caressing breeze, the faintest taste of rain in the air, rain that would not fall for hours—and then would fall gently.
Wanting to take advantage of the day, she decided to work outside, starting some herbs from seed.
***
He was watching her again. Bad habit, Boone thought with a grimace as he glanced down at the cigarette between his fingers. He wasn’t having much luck with breaking bad habits. Nor was he getting a hell of a lot of work done since he’d looked out the window and seen her outside.
She always looked so … elegant, he decided. A kind of inner elegance that wasn’t the least diminished by the grass-stained cutoffs and short-sleeved T-shirt she wore.
It was in the way she moved, as if the air were wine that she drank lightly from as she passed through it.
Getting lyrical, he mused, and reminded himself to save it for his books.
Maybe it was because she was the fairy-princess type he so often wrote about. There was that ethereal, otherworldly air about her. And the quiet strength in her eyes. Boone had never believed that fairy princesses were pushovers.
But there was still this delicacy about her body—a body he sincerely wished he hadn’t begun to dwell upon. Not a frailty, but a serene kind of femininity that he imagined would baffle and allure any male who was still breathing.
Boone Sawyer was definitely breathing.
Now what was she doing? he wondered, crushing out his cigarette impatiently and moving closer to the window. She’d gone into the garden shed and had come out again with her arms piled high with pots.
Wasn’t it just like a woman to try to carry more than she should?
