quoted. “Power must never be used to hurt.”
“So you’re a serious and responsible witch. And you cast love spells for your customers.”
Her chin shot out. “Certainly not.”
“You took those pictures—that woman’s niece, and the geometry heartthrob.”
He didn’t miss a trick, Morgana thought in disgust. “She didn’t give me much choice.” Because she was embarrassed, she set down her cup with a snap. “And just because I took the pictures doesn’t mean I’m about to sprinkle them both with moondust.”
“Is that how it works?”
“Yes, but—” She bit her tongue. “You’re making fun of me. Why do you ask questions when you’re not going to believe the answers?”
“I don’t have to believe them to be interested.” And he was—very. He found himself sliding a few inches closer. “So you didn’t do anything about the prom?”
“I didn’t say that.” She sulked a little while he gave in and toyed with her hair. “I simply removed a small barrier. Anything else would have been interference.”
“What barrier?” He didn’t have a clue as to what moondust might smell like, but he thought it would carry the same perfume as her hair.
“The girl’s desperately shy. I only gave her confidence a tiny boost. The rest is up to her.”
She had a beautiful neck, slim and graceful. He imagined what it would be like to nibble on it. For an hour or two. Business, he reminded himself. Stick to business.
“Is that how you work? Giving boosts?”
She turned her head and looked directly into his eyes. “It depends on the situation.”
“I’ve been reading a lot. Witches used to be considered the wise women of the villages. Making potions, charming, foretelling events, healing the sick.”
“My speciality isn’t healing, or seeing.”
“What is your speciality?”
“Magic.” Whether it was a matter of pride or annoyance, she wasn’t sure, but she sent thunder walkingacross the sky.
Nash glanced toward the window. “Sounds like a storm coming.”
“Could be. Why don’t I answer some of your questions, so you can beat it home?”
Damn it, she wanted him gone. She knew what she’d seen in the scrying ball, and that with care, with skill, such things could sometimes be changed. But whatever was to be, she didn’t want things moving so fast.
And the way he was touching her, just those long fingertips to her hair, had little flicks of fear lighting in her gut.
That made her angry.
“No hurry,” he said easily, wondering whether, if he took a chance and kissed her again, he’d experience that same otherworldly sensation. “I don’t mind a little rain.”
“It’s going to pour,” she muttered to herself. She’d damn well see to it. “Some of your books might be helpful,” she began. “Giving you history and recorded facts, a general outline of rituals.” She poked a finger at the first one he’d given her. “Not this one. There are certain . . . trappings that are used in the Craft.”
“Graveyard dirt?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”
“Come on, Morgana, it’s a great visual.” He shifted, slipping a hand over hers, wanting her to see as he saw. “Exterior scene, night. Our beautiful heroine wading through the fog, crossing over the shadows of headstones. An owl screams. In the distance echoes the long, ululant howl of a dog. Close-up of that pale, perfect face, framed by a dark hood. She stops by a fresh grave and, chanting, sifts a handful of newly turned earth into her magic pouch. Thunder claps. Fade out.”
She tried, really tried, not to be offended. Imagine anyone thinking she skulked around graveyards. “Nash, I’m trying to remember that what you do is entertainment, and you’re certainly entitled to a great deal of artistic license.”
He had to kiss her fingers. Really had to. “So you don’t spend much time in cemeteries.”
She snagged her temper, and a bolt of desire. “I’ll accept the fact that you don’t
“So you’re a serious and responsible witch. And you cast love spells for your customers.”
Her chin shot out. “Certainly not.”
“You took those pictures—that woman’s niece, and the geometry heartthrob.”
He didn’t miss a trick, Morgana thought in disgust. “She didn’t give me much choice.” Because she was embarrassed, she set down her cup with a snap. “And just because I took the pictures doesn’t mean I’m about to sprinkle them both with moondust.”
“Is that how it works?”
“Yes, but—” She bit her tongue. “You’re making fun of me. Why do you ask questions when you’re not going to believe the answers?”
“I don’t have to believe them to be interested.” And he was—very. He found himself sliding a few inches closer. “So you didn’t do anything about the prom?”
“I didn’t say that.” She sulked a little while he gave in and toyed with her hair. “I simply removed a small barrier. Anything else would have been interference.”
“What barrier?” He didn’t have a clue as to what moondust might smell like, but he thought it would carry the same perfume as her hair.
“The girl’s desperately shy. I only gave her confidence a tiny boost. The rest is up to her.”
She had a beautiful neck, slim and graceful. He imagined what it would be like to nibble on it. For an hour or two. Business, he reminded himself. Stick to business.
“Is that how you work? Giving boosts?”
She turned her head and looked directly into his eyes. “It depends on the situation.”
“I’ve been reading a lot. Witches used to be considered the wise women of the villages. Making potions, charming, foretelling events, healing the sick.”
“My speciality isn’t healing, or seeing.”
“What is your speciality?”
“Magic.” Whether it was a matter of pride or annoyance, she wasn’t sure, but she sent thunder walkingacross the sky.
Nash glanced toward the window. “Sounds like a storm coming.”
“Could be. Why don’t I answer some of your questions, so you can beat it home?”
Damn it, she wanted him gone. She knew what she’d seen in the scrying ball, and that with care, with skill, such things could sometimes be changed. But whatever was to be, she didn’t want things moving so fast.
And the way he was touching her, just those long fingertips to her hair, had little flicks of fear lighting in her gut.
That made her angry.
“No hurry,” he said easily, wondering whether, if he took a chance and kissed her again, he’d experience that same otherworldly sensation. “I don’t mind a little rain.”
“It’s going to pour,” she muttered to herself. She’d damn well see to it. “Some of your books might be helpful,” she began. “Giving you history and recorded facts, a general outline of rituals.” She poked a finger at the first one he’d given her. “Not this one. There are certain . . . trappings that are used in the Craft.”
“Graveyard dirt?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”
“Come on, Morgana, it’s a great visual.” He shifted, slipping a hand over hers, wanting her to see as he saw. “Exterior scene, night. Our beautiful heroine wading through the fog, crossing over the shadows of headstones. An owl screams. In the distance echoes the long, ululant howl of a dog. Close-up of that pale, perfect face, framed by a dark hood. She stops by a fresh grave and, chanting, sifts a handful of newly turned earth into her magic pouch. Thunder claps. Fade out.”
She tried, really tried, not to be offended. Imagine anyone thinking she skulked around graveyards. “Nash, I’m trying to remember that what you do is entertainment, and you’re certainly entitled to a great deal of artistic license.”
He had to kiss her fingers. Really had to. “So you don’t spend much time in cemeteries.”
She snagged her temper, and a bolt of desire. “I’ll accept the fact that you don’t
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