Books by Maggie Shayne (54 page)

“You do?”

“It’s been running through my mind all weekend. I couldn’t stop it, not by trying to forget you, not by drawing you. I didn’t think I wanted ... this. But it’s the only thing I want. I just don’t know why it took me so long to realize that I’ve been head over heels for my prim little Miss Biswell for months but was too damned dense to admit it. That’s why I’ve been so depressed and moody and bored since you left, Martha Jane. I was missing you.”

“You were?” She blinked up at him, then shook her head, terrified that this was all a mistake. An infatuation. He would change his mind in a week or a month and leave her devastated. “Richard, you’re tired and confused and—”

“You going to make me beg? Fine, I’ll beg.” He dropped to his knees. She closed her eyes, and he took her hand, sat back a little, looked up at her. “I can be what you want,” he said softly. “Solid, stable ... I swear to God I can.”

“I don’t know if I can be what
you
want,” she whispered.

“Martha Jane, you already are. You have been all along. You’re what I was looking for in all those other women and not finding.”

“I am?”

He nodded, then smiled slightly. “It’s not entirely my fault, you know. You were hiding yourself from me awfully well.”

She lowered her eyelids. “I didn’t think I stood a chance beside the bombshells waiting in line for you.”

“There won’t be any more bombshells, sweetie. You nuked me for all the rest. I only want you.”

Finally, she met his eyes, held them. “Do you mean that, Richard? Because I couldn’t take being just one of your flings.”

“Then don’t be,” he said. “Be ... be my wife instead.”

She smiled very slowly. “Richard ... ?”

But he was already pulling the ring from his pocket, slipping it on her finger, pressing his lips there to seal his promise. “I mean it,” he told her. “I want you to marry me. I want to love you every night, whether you’re wearing a negligee or flannel pajamas. I mean it. I honestly mean it, Martha Jane.”

Blinking back her tears, Martha Jane sank to her knees and into Richard’s waiting arms. “I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you all along.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, Richard,” she said. “Yes.”

He sighed as if he’d been holding his breath, clasped her tight to him, and rose to his feet, picking her right up off hers. “I love you, Martha Jane!” he shouted. “You really are the best Valentine I ever got.”

Dedicated with love to all the members of RavenMyst Circle, Inc.

by Lady Gwynne Thompson as given by her grandmother, Adrianna Porter

(Being Known as The Counsel of the Wise Ones)

1. Bide the Wiccan laws ye must in perfect love and perfect trust.

2. Live and let live--fairly take and fairly give.

3. Cast the Circle thrice about to keep all evil spirits out.

4. To bind the spell every time, let the spell be spake in rhyme.

5. Soft of eye and light of touch--speak little, listen much.

6. Deosil go by the waxing Moon--sing and dance the Wiccan rune.

7. Widdershins go when the Moon doth wane, and the Werewolf howls by the dread Wolfsbane.

8. When the Lady's moon is new, kiss the hand to her times two.

9. When the Moon rides at her peak, then your heart's desire seek.

10. Heed the Northwind's mighty gale--lock the door and drop the sail.

11. When the wind comes from the South, love will kiss thee on the mouth.

12. When the wind blows from the East, expect the new and set the feast.

13. When the West wind blows o'er thee, departed spirits restless be.

14. Nine woods in the Cauldron go--burn them quick and burn them slow.

15. Elder be ye Lady's tree--burn it not or cursed ye'll be.

16. When the Wheel begins to turn--let the Beltane fires burn.

17. When the Wheel has turned a Yule, light the Log and let Pan rule.

18. Heed ye flower, bush and tree--by the Lady blessed be.

19. Where the rippling waters go, cast a stone an truth ye'll know.

20. When ye have need, hearken not to other's greed.

21. With the fool no season spend or be counted as his friend.

22. Merry meet an merry part--bright the cheeks and warm the heart.

23. Mind the Threefold Law ye should--three times bad and three times good.

24. When misfortune is enow, wear the blue star on thy brow.

25. True in love ever be unless thy lover's false to thee.

26. Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill--an it harm none, do what ye will.

The gorgeous brunette clenched her hands into fists at her sides, her torn blouse gaping just enough to reveal the swell of her artificially enhanced cleavage as her chest heaved in anger.

"You'll never get the best of me, you black-hearted Warlock!"

The Warlock, whose shirt had been conveniently ripped off during the struggle with the Enchantress, stood facing her, his clenched, just slightly unshaven jaw and black eyes flashing defiance. "Oh, but I already have," he said in a sexy growl.

"What are you waiting for? Vanquish him!" shouted the blonde, an innocent bystander whose bosom was also enhanced, exposed and heaving.

The Witch marched forward, clutching an ancient-looking book, which she had opened to a faded parchment page. Tossing her hair and lifting her chin, she read aloud in a rather tedious monotone, " 'By your own power of dark and fear, Warlock, you are out of here!'"

The Warlock flung his arms over his face and staggered backward, through the breakaway front door. His exit would be much more impressive once they added in the special effects, Melissa supposed. There would probably be flashes of fire, whirlwinds of smoke, and a thundering roar. She'd been watching this show for a while now. There were always flashes of fire, whirlwinds of smoke, and thundering roars.

The director yelled, "Cut!" and the others in the room broke into spontaneous applause.

Melissa pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "That was awful. It was horrible. My Goddess, where are you people
getting
this stuff?"

"From the writers," a deep voice said.

She turned and looked at the guy who, she thought vaguely, should have been playing the sexy "warlock." His eyes were as black as coal and she felt them when they touched her. They made her shiver, those eyes. She tried to look elsewhere, to notice his careless hair, a little too long, completely unstyled, or his clothes--the way the black polo shirt strained against the push of his chest or the way the jeans hugged his thighs. But no, she couldn't focus on anything but those eyes.

"Are you new on the set?" he asked.

"Um, not yet." She swallowed hard, wet her lips, told herself to work harder on forming coherent sentences, and finally thrust out a hand. "I'm Melissa St. Cloud. I have an appointment with Alexander Quinn."

He lifted his brows. "Tell me it's about the tech consultant position."

"It's about the tech consultant position."

He smiled, a slow, knowing smile. His eyes seemed unable to let go of hers.

She tipped her head to one side, wondering who the hell he was. A stand-in for the dark warlock? The actors were already heading their separate ways; the two starlets didn't speak so much as a civil word as they split. But then, never breaking eye contact, the gorgeous man yelled, "Everyone, get back here. I want you to hear this!"

Muttering, they gathered around. He nodded at Melissa. "Now, tell us what was wrong with that scene."

The brunette shot her daggers. "Who
is
this person?"

"Just be quiet and listen, Rita," he said in that deep, authoritative voice that rubbed all Melissa's nerve endings until they quivered. God, she'd never been so turned on by a man in her life. There was something about him. He looked at her, touched her with his eyes. She shivered with awareness. "Go on. What was wrong with the scene?"

She swallowed the dryness in her throat. "Well... that's just not how it works. Reading a line from a book, no matter how old and dusty it might be, is
not
how one casts a spell. And a warlock is
not
a male Witch."

The actresses exchanged looks of disbelief; then they turned on the man, waiting. "Alex, just what the hell is going on here?" the blonde asked.

Alex? So
he
was Alexander Quinn, the creator-slash-executive producer? Why hadn't he said so?

"This is Melissa St. Cloud," he told them. "She's our new technical consultant."

"On what?" the brunette asked.

"On Witchcraft."

All eyes turned toward Melissa. She felt herself shrinking a little. The actresses were both a good six inches taller than she was and built of little more than skin, bone, and breast implants.

"You're an
expert
on
Witchcraft
!" the brunette asked. "Isn't that kind of like being an expert on, oh, I don't know, the Tooth Fairy?"

The others laughed. Alex just watched Melissa, as if waiting to see how she would handle herself.

Melissa closed her eyes, got in touch with her inner bitch, and stood a little straighter. "I've been involved in the Pagan community and the study of Witchcraft for fifteen years," she told them. "I'm a High Priestess, a licensed minister, and I hold a Ph.D. in religious studies. I teach Alternative Religions classes at UCLA one semester a year, and I've consulted on seven books on the subject. Any more questions?"

The actresses rolled their eyes, sighed, studied their nails. They did not, however, speak up again.

"Ladies," Alex said, "the network has been inundated with mail complaining that we are getting it wrong. It seems there are a lot of people out there these days who take this kind of stuff rather seriously. In today's market, the viewers are more savvy than ever before. If we want to suspend their disbelief, we have to be as accurate as possible."

"Do you hear what you're saying?" asked the blonde. "How can you be accurate about something that doesn't exist?'

Melissa sent her a swift glance. "Oh, it exists."

"Oh, please. Fine, it exists. And you're a real-live modern-day Witch. So why don't you prove it? Levitate one of us or make something disappear." She crossed her arms under her breasts, pushing them up even higher. "Well? Go on, we're all waiting."

Melissa turned to Alex. "That," she said, "is precisely the kind of misinformation that's messing up your show." Then she glanced back at the girl. "But somehow, I don't think explaining all of this to a bunch of actors is going to get us anywhere. After all, they only recite the lines the writers give them and follow the director's orders." She returned her attention to Alex, dismissing the actresses without another word. "We should probably schedule a sit-down meeting with the writing team."

He smiled very slowly, his eyes warming. "You want it, you've got it." He nodded to the others, a signal that they could leave; then he took her arm.

When his hand closed around her elbow, she shivered with an inexplicable tingle of pure sensation. My God, she had it bad. And the guy was her new boss.

Not a good situation.

He led her to a small room on the set, created by freestanding partitions with a door in them--no ceiling. Inside was a desk strewn with piles and piles of paper, a coffeemaker, and a chair. He nodded to the chair. "Sit."

She sat.

He perched on the edge of the desk, close to her. Really close. "Those credentials you were reciting in there--they all legit?"

She blinked her eyes. "You didn't already know? It was all in my résumé--I sent it in with the job application."

"Oh. Right."

"You did read it, didn't you?"

He looked away. "I got a pile of résumés. Looked them over, but after a while they all blend together. I had my secretary set up a bunch of interviews, of which you are the first."

"But... you hired me."

"Yeah." Again he couldn't seem to break eye contact, though he did at length. He reached for a piece of paper and a pen. "Jot down your name, address, Social. I'll get you on the payroll this afternoon."

She jotted while he watched her every move. When she finished, he took the sheet, looked at it, then at her.

"Anything else?" she asked.

He licked his lips. "Yeah." He got up from the desk, stood next to her, and bent low to pull open several drawers. His forearm brushed her thigh and she closed her eyes and wondered if an attraction this potent could possibly be for real or if she'd accidentally eaten a dose of Spanish Fly with her morning granola. This close, she could smell him--the soap he used, no cologne. He wasn't a cologne kind of man. And she could feel him--his body heat.

He finally straightened with a six-inch-thick stack of pages, which he handed to her. "This is the story arc for the season, along with the breakdowns for each episode. You're going to need to get familiar with it. Fast."

She took the heavy stack, rose slowly to her feet.

"I'll be in touch later, to let you know when we've scheduled your meeting with the writing team. You have any questions?"

She had a thousand, but right now she just wanted to get out of there. She couldn't think straight this close to the man. So she just shook her head from side to side.

"Good. Go on home, then. Read. I'll see you later."

She turned and left the studio. And it wasn't until she was in her VW Bug and heading home that she realized she had actually landed the job of her dreams. Smiling widely, she thanked the Goddess and kept on driving.

*
 
*
 
*
 
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*

Alex figured his mind settled back into working order when she got about fifty yards away from him. He sank into his chair. It was still warm from her body. "What the hell was that?"

He didn't get an answer. He didn't believe in magic. And it was a good thing, or he'd have thought the woman had cast some kind of a spell on him. And yet, he had no doubt he'd chosen the right person for the job. The show--his creation--was in trouble. The ratings were dropping, the actresses were feuding, the sponsors were fading, and the right-wing zealot groups were boycotting the sponsors. He was no Hollywood insider, but he was sure as hell swimming with the sharks now.

The charm he wore around his neck burned against his skin. A deep whisper echoed in his mind.

Perfect. It'll all be perfect. You have the Midas touch, you know.

He frowned, looking around the office. But he saw no one there. It must have been a snippet of dialogue from one of the nearby soundstages. Sounded excellent. Creepy, with an otherworldly hollowness to it. They must be working on a horror flick or something.

He leaned back in his chair and turned on the radio to drown out the noise, and then he tried again to figure out what it was about the woman that had hit him so powerfully.