Love Spell (29 page)

Do or die.

He closed his eyes, and knocked firmly enough that he couldn’t back out on the pretext that no one had heard him. Moments later, he heard muffled sounds from inside, and then clearly heard footsteps approaching the door. The light above the door flicked on and he saw the peep hole darken. Suddenly, the light shut off and something thumped once on the inside of the door. And then all was quiet.

Okay
, he thought.
At least we know someone is home.

He knocked again. And again. His nerves began to protest when he pulled out his phone. Between shaking hands and fumbling with the roses, he had to dial the number from the card three times before he managed to get it right. A phone buzzed from inside the condo but after four rings, it went to voicemail.

“Um,” he said after the beep. “Look. I’m not mad about the car. Call it karma for what happened with that old Audi. Anyway, I know you’re home. This is weird for both of us, but can we maybe talk like normal people instead of you leaving me out on the porch? I promise, I’ll deal with the car damage myself. Okay? So please, come on—”

The porch light blinded him again and the door clicked open. An obscured shadow appeared in the small opening. The glint of a door chain left no doubts about the level of welcome he could expect.

“Hey,” he said plainly.

The shadow didn’t respond.

“So. You’re a D-Backs fan now? Or were you actually stalking me, waiting for a chance to bang up my car?”

Still no answer.

“This reminds me of that road trip to Seattle. You know, the stretch from Frisco to Portland? I guess I can carry the conversation this time too, but it’d be a lot more fun if you said something. If nothing else it would relieve my nerves enough that I didn’t have to worry about peeing my pants.”

The door closed in his face, and he heaved a sigh. Before he could make the stairs, a chain jingled behind him. The door swung open again, and the porch light went out. He turned to see that same shadow standing in a small foyer, radiating impatience and frustration. Wordlessly, he stepped into the condo.

The smell of some tropical fruit air fresheners gave him the impression that he had accidentally stepped into an island resort. The place was sparsely, but tastefully decorated to the theme of “professional single woman.” Clint found he really liked her digs. The paint scheme was great, too—off white with hints of pastels that spoke very much to the artist in him. It reminded him of that watercolor meadow scene he’d once tried.

“So. Been here long?” he asked, as he set the roses on the glass coffee table.

Lindsay Sullivan peered at the roses, and then turned a cold gaze on him. “Why are you here, Clint?” Her cold, quiet tone left no room for misinterpretation.

Clint walked into the kitchen, and searched the cupboards for a glass. He found one, and got some water from the dispenser in her refrigerator. It was clean and cold, and slid down his throat nicely. “It’s good to see you again, too. Those are for you,” he said, nodding at the flowers.

“Answer me. Please don’t make me call the police.”

Clint turned to her. She was poised tensely in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other on the knob. Her face had a strange mix of emotions he couldn’t quite unravel. Of course, he never had been good at reading women, nor had his little curse conveyed that ability. Still, she looked beautiful. Seeing her again raised his heart rate; she still looked cute when agitated. He only wished he could actually take advantage of that. He hadn’t realized just how
much
he had locked his heart away since that morning in Seattle when she stopped being a part of his life. He hadn’t looked at his sketch of her in over two years.

“Whoa. Calling the cops after letting me in is a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

She frowned deeply. “And I don’t want the roses.”

“They’re on me. Look, Lindsay,” he said, rinsing his empty glass and setting it in the dish drainer, “I’m not sure how to say this.” He walked around the small bar that separated the kitchen from the living area, and pulled up a stool. “I haven’t seen you in a long time, and… geez.” This was proving much harder than he’d expected. Why couldn’t he
say
it? Oh, yeah. He’d already tried, and failed miserably.

“You have exactly five seconds to make your way out,” she said, “or I
will
dial the police.”

Clint waved it away. “Fine. Five seconds. Lindsay Sullivan, there has been a hole in my heart ever since I let you go. I wish like anything I could have had that curse removed and given us an honest-to-goodness chance. There. Five seconds. I’m done.”

He got up to leave, and noticed that her eyes were virtually brimming. Eh. It wasn’t the first time he’d said something stupid and made a woman cry. She looked sharply away when he made eye contact, but aside from lowering her arms, she made no movement when he brushed past her a second time—not quite touching—on his way out. He could still feel that morning on the beach, and her soft warmth against the cold, wet sand of the Puget Sound. It was as if time had simply skipped a few years, and deposited him in the hot,
dry
sands of the American Southwest. Either way, he was with
her
.

Blue blazes
, he mused.
She smells good.

Then he was past her and out in the open-air stairwell again, and on his way down. He knew the best thing to do was simply say goodbye once and for all and then wait for Molly to come collect him. He knew her well enough that he was actually surprised she hadn’t shown up at Lindsay’s place already. Rather than risk a scene and embarrass Sullivan further, he’d take it to the courtyard by the pool and let the night owls watch the action. Maybe he could even go for a little swim while he still had a few minutes.

Half a flight down, he heard a half-strangled phrase from above. He pivoted to see what he was missing. There, at the top of the stairs, Sullivan was staring down at him, tears obvious on her face.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Fey’s not dead,” Sully croaked.

Clint felt his heart stop.
Did she say…?

“I saw her,” she continued. “She was here. Two nights ago. Right out in that parking lot. She attacked me with a goat.” Sully gave a sobbing chuckle.

Clint took three stairs at a time back toward her. “Wait, you mean you
spoke
with her? Like, in person?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And?”

“I made a wish.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “For what?”

Lindsay hurried back into her condo, but before Clint could follow, she was back outside again, purse over her shoulder, and keys in hand. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

“What—”

“Come on, Clint. I think I know where she is. Well, maybe.” Sullivan grabbed his hand as she raced past him toward the bottom of the stairs. Clint flinched automatically at the touch, but welcomed it all the same. Might as well let it play at this point.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Ever done Vegas?”

Clint just smiled.

TWENTY-SIX

Las Vegas, Nevada was everything Clint had dreamed of. Except for the bit about having no idea where Fey actually was. But he’d heard this tune before a few years ago—“I know where she is! Oh… wait…” He didn’t fault Lindsay (she’d insisted he call her that), though. She’d gotten him closer to a resolution than he’d ever been before, and frankly, he was happy to even see her again, and thrilled that she wasn’t stark raving mad for having touched him again.

Sullivan managed the drive to Vegas in four hours. They grabbed a pair of rooms in the Luxor simply because it looked cool, and he spent a restless night waiting for dawn, and scribbling a new portrait of Lindsay to keep his mind off worrying about Molly. Molly had been great—attractive, intelligent, dependable—and safe to date. She was a better alternative than a train wreck of a love life, but she was a bit too clingy. Unlike Lindsay. And Lindsay actually knew how to laugh.

When he finished the portrait, Clint had coaxed himself into trying to sleep. It didn’t work. Fey was alive and once again within reach. He wondered whether he could squeeze a second wish out of her. He’d worry about payment when he found her.

He rose before the sun, grabbed a quick and quiet breakfast with Lindsay, and then they were on their way.

As they pulled out onto Hacienda Avenue, he looked over at her. “I never did ask you why you’re still driving this beater.” He gestured at his old Corolla.

Lindsay spread her hands. “I needed something I could beat up. The firm lets me drive a Benz on company business, but this is my day-to-day. A simple workhorse.”

He laughed. “Bull. You drive it because it reminds you of me.”

Shock registered on her face. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Hey, you needed some sort of memento after you bailed on me.”

Lindsay’s face closed in a flash. “You left me first.”

He rolled his eyes. “Remind me what I said in my note when I drove away without saying goodbye.”

“You said goodbye when you started sucking face with Secret Agent Gal.”

“She kissed
me
, Sully.”

“Funny, I never saw you try to stop it.”

Clint sighed and sat back in his seat. “Wait, why are we fighting? What are we even fighting
about
? I only barely got you back.”

“Got me
back
? You never had me in the first place.”

He smirked. “Oh, Sully. I
so
had you on the beach.”

Lindsay turned away. “That wasn’t me you had,” she whispered. “You said so yourself.”

Great. She
had
to remind him of that. He pursed his lips. “Sully… Lindsay… Yesterday I pretty much pulled my heart out of my chest and pinned it to my sleeve. Now I don’t know what that means to you, but that’s harder for a guy to do than you might think.

“Until yesterday, for all I knew, you were nothing more than a really good memory I tried not to think about because that’s all you were—a memory. Next thing I know, I run into you after a Giants game, and then find out that Fey isn’t dead after all. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Lindsay stopped at the light on Tropicana, but kept her eyes forward. “Yes, Clint. It means I got to spend part of an evening with a cranky old hag who smelled like her live-in goat.”

Clint shook his head. “No. It means… It means… Never mind.”

He leaned back in his seat and covered his eyes. Did he really need to tell her this again? Hadn’t yesterday’s confession been enough?
This
close to finally having something meaningful with her, and yet, she was throwing up roadblocks even
after
initiating a trip to Vegas? It didn’t make any sense. Unless, of course, she was trying to get
herself
free of the curse. Maybe he was kidding himself.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice like a pillow.

Without warning he felt her close to him. He peeked out from under his hand, and realized he’d never been more excited to see anyone in his whole life.

“Please tell me, Clint.”

He fought the urge to kiss her by pulling out his sketchpad. He handed it to her without looking. She took it, and he heard her flip through the pages silently.

Then she gasped.

“Clint? Is this… me? The forest is lovely. It’s just like that one—”

Do or die
, he thought.

He sucked in a breath, gently pushed the sketchpad aside, and quickly pressed his lips to hers.

As always, she went rigid instantly, and he thought he could hear her heart racing. For three years, he’d been able to carefully avoid contact with the opposite sex (Molly aside) and that had allowed him some semblance of normalcy despite hiding under Molly’s ever-vigilant eye. The FBI agent had filled his need for female companionship during that time, and while he’d once considered marriage, in the end he knew Molly wasn’t it.

But here, now, with Lindsay, it was easy to lose himself in her; she was worth risking the madness. He kissed her as if it were the last one he might ever get. He’d think about the repercussions later.

Then, something happened—Lindsay softened, and flowed into the kiss. It was almost the same as she’d done on the beach all those mornings ago. This time, he could tell that it really was
her
, and not the byproduct of some crazy magic.

A car horn blasted him out of his little paradise, and he jerked away from her. Her eyes were ravenous, and she was still leaning into his personal space. The driver behind them mashed his horn a second time, and held it. Lindsay slowly retreated, and fumbled with the accelerator, still keeping one eye on Clint. The old Toyota lurched forward a few times, and then steadied itself. Lindsay’s breathing was shallow and rapid; Clint’s breathing kept time with hers. Part of him knew he should leap from the car while it was still only doing thirty, but he couldn’t bring himself to even take his eyes off her.

A block or two later, Lindsay pulled off into a parking lot, and the belligerent driver that had been tailgating them flew past with another honk and a one-fingered salute.

“Did you mean that, Clint?” Lindsay asked between ragged breaths. “How long have you wanted to tell me that?”

Clint did some mental calculations. “Let’s see… Carry the one… Eleven hundred and three days. Give or take.”

She leaned back against the driver’s side window, and gazed silently at him for a while.

“Well?” he finally asked.

“What happens if we find Fey?” was her reply.

Clint gave her a crooked grin. “I’ll deal with the goat; you put her in an armbar. We might be able to wring a wish out of her yet.”

“And just what would you wish for?” Lindsay asked, leaning back toward him.

“I’m pretty sure I made it clear back at that red light.” For good measure, he repeated his explanation.

After reaching a mutual understanding, they hit the Vegas beat with gusto. Lindsay made more phone calls in an hour than Clint thought possible, staring at him intensely the whole time. She was in good spirits despite the number of times she hung up on a note of, “Well, thank you anyway.” Her list of calls to make was shrinking quickly, but Clint told himself not to get his hopes up. They drove to an area on the east side of town when she thought she had an actual lead, but the painted RV they found was not the bus they were looking for.