Sympathetic Magic (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 4) (10 page)

And eventually they had eaten and drunk their fill, and Margot insisted on helping him clear the table. Since Jeff and Claire had tidied up all evidence of the actual meal preparations, it was short work to put the leftovers in storage containers and the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Then Lucas straightened up, wondering what he could do to extend the evening. Margot really didn’t seem like the type to watch television — he hadn’t even seen a TV at her place — and she hadn’t appeared terribly inclined toward conversation, at least not the sort of conversation he wanted, when she would unbend enough to reveal a little more about herself.

He saw Margot’s gaze shift toward the kitchen door, which was basically a window in a doorframe, one that opened on the deck, and her eyes lit up. “I think — I think it’s snowing!”

Thank God. Let it snow,
he thought.
Let it snow like that one storm five years ago when it came up to the windows. Then we’ll be trapped in here together, and she’ll have no choice but to finally open up.

“Let’s take a look,” he said, hoping he sounded more or less unconcerned. He dried his hands on a dish towel and went to the door, then opened it.

A blast of freezing air entered the warm kitchen, but Margot didn’t seem to mind. The lights mounted on the rear of the house had turned on automatically at dusk, and so it was easy to see the pale flakes floating down, dancing this way and that. They were falling fast, too, and thickly, so much so that he could see the snow already beginning to pile up on the deck railings and the patio furniture, shrouded for the season, and on the boards of the deck itself.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

“I thought it snowed in Jerome sometimes.”

“It does, but something about it here feels quieter, deeper. Maybe it’s all the pine trees around the house.”

He could see that. Yes, there were trees in Jerome, but nothing like the stately ponderosa pines that surrounded his home. A minute passed as they stood in silence, watching the snow fall, and then he said, “It’s too cold to stand here like this. The last thing I want is you getting sick.”

“I never get sick,” she said absently, but she did step away from the door so he could close it, shutting out the falling snow and the icy air that had begun to penetrate even the wool sweater he wore.

“You’ll still be able to see it if we go into the living room,” he went on. “All those windows look out over the deck, too.”

She nodded, and he led her out of the kitchen, on to the big chamber where the fireplace already had logs piled in it, waiting for just this moment. Well, he hadn’t thought it would really snow, but you didn’t need snow to want a fire on a cold evening in November. Since he didn’t have Margot’s facility for sparking off a fire whenever she felt like it, he had to settle for using a long-necked butane lighter to get the logs going. In a few minutes, they were crackling away cheerily.

As he tended the fire, she moved to the windows so she might stand there and watch the snow coming down, thicker and thicker, so you could begin to see the waves and ripples in it. That seemed to him a sign that the snow wasn’t planning on going away anytime soon, and he sent a mental thanks heavenward for the storm and its unexpected strength. He recalled something else, too, and went to a small cabinet in a corner of the room, extracting a pair of heavy blown-glass shot glasses before pouring a good measure of cognac into each one.

“For the cold,” he said, handing one to Margot.

For the barest second, she hesitated, and then she took it from him. “I did get a little chilled,” she admitted.

“Then
skoal
,” he said, and they clinked their glasses and took a sip. The cognac pulsed down his throat, warm and welcome, although he noticed that Margot winced a bit as she swallowed. Probably not used to the strong stuff.

“What do you do when it gets like this?” she asked, and he shrugged.

“Wait it out. I said I didn’t cook, but it’s not as if I don’t keep stuff on hand just in case. Watch TV. Surf the Internet, as long as the cable doesn’t crap out or the electricity go out.”

She looked vaguely alarmed. “Does that happen often?”

“Hardly ever. We’re used to getting pounded in this city, so the infrastructure is built to take it. Besides, I have a generator out in the shed in case of a real emergency.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her, as she inclined her head slightly and allowed herself another sip of cognac. This time she didn’t shudder, which Lucas took as a good sign.

For the longest moment, she stood there, saying nothing, only watching the snow fall. Already the patio furniture and the barbecue in their winter covers had taken on vaguely threatening shapes, the accumulating snowflakes obscuring their true nature, making them look like monstrous huddled forms.

“Lucas,” Margot said at last. Something in her tone made a chill run down his spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air he could feel faintly seeping in past the French doors.

He kept his voice as calm as he could. “What?”

“What happens if I let myself trust you?”

“You don’t trust me now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Without replying, he plucked the shot glass from her hand and led her over to the sofa, the one that faced the fireplace. He set both their glasses down on the heavy copper-topped cocktail table, then said, “Do you think I’m anything like Clay McAllister?”

A short, bitter laugh. “No.”

“Then why do you think I would treat you the same way?”

Her hands knotted in her lap. She wore a single coral ring on the middle finger of her right hand, but nothing else — no watch, no bracelet. He found he liked that, as her hands were slender and lovely, just like her, and didn’t need any other embellishment.

“I don’t know.” Her eyes were fixed on the fire. So she wouldn’t have to look at him. In that moment, he didn’t care, if it meant she might go on talking. “I guess because I’ve sort of gotten out of the habit of trusting people. Men, I mean.” She leaned forward and took one deliberate sip of her cognac before setting the glass back on the table. “Oh, that doesn’t sound right, either. It’s not like there was anyone after Clay.”

“No one?” Lucas asked, startled. She couldn’t possibly mean that she hadn’t been with a single person since her ex-fiancé dumped her. Or…could she?

Something of what he’d been thinking must have revealed itself on his face, because she slanted a sardonic sideways glance at him up through her eyelashes. “No relationships, I mean. Not much else, either. About four years ago, I was feeling a bit…pent-up…if you know what I mean. So I went into Sedona, and the film festival was going on. It was February. I met some guy who said he was a producer and that I had a great look. Maybe he really was, but I still could recognize a line when I heard one. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t looking for anything permanent. We both scratched our itch, and I went home to Jerome, and he went back to L.A., I suppose.”

She spoke coolly, as if the whole thing had happened to someone else, but Lucas noticed that she’d returned to watching the fireplace, as if she didn’t want to meet his eyes and find out how disappointed he was in her. Disappointment was probably the last thing he was feeling, though. Startled? Sure. Despite her cracks about casual sex the other day, he hadn’t thought she could let go of herself enough to be with someone she didn’t know. Or maybe that was exactly what she needed. Someone who didn’t have a clue about who — or what — she was, didn’t know her family history, didn’t know anything except that she was an available and attractive woman.

“You do what you have to do,” Lucas said, making sure his tone was completely neutral, with no hint of condemnation. “I don’t think anyone would fault you for what happened in Sedona — although some people might question why you only did it once.”

At that comment, she shifted on the couch so she was facing him. Her expression was hard to read. Maybe the tiniest bit confused? Then her lips twisted into a half-smile. “It took me enough effort to work up the nerve for that one time. And afterward….” A lift of the shoulders. “I wasn’t too happy with what I’d done. So I guess I just stopped thinking about that part of myself. It was easier that way.”

“And now?”

Her eyelids dropped, and she seemed to hesitate. “I don’t know, Lucas. Everything you’ve done for me so far — it’s incredible, and I know I should trust you, because I know Angela thinks the world of you, and she definitely doesn’t feel that way about everyone. And you’ve been such a gentleman — ”

“Except now,” he murmured, his instincts telling him to reach out and pull her to him now, to bring his mouth to hers, taste the lingering warmth of the cognac on her lips, and beneath that some indefinable sweetness which was simply her.

He felt no resistance from her, which was what he’d feared, even as he let himself kiss her. No, she opened her mouth to him, tasted him as well, pressed herself against him, and suddenly she was beneath him on the couch, her body lithe and eager, so warm, and he ran one hand ran over her, finding the curve of her breast….

And then he felt her push against him, heard her gasp, “Lucas, I can’t — ”

At once he forced himself upright, giving her some distance so she could struggle to a sitting position. “Jesus, Margot, I’m sorry. I would never force you — ”

Her mouth, now looking a little swollen, shaped itself into a rueful smile. “You weren’t forcing me. I wanted — anyway, I just think it’s too soon. I can’t…I won’t go there yet.”

That was more than he’d hoped for. She had said “yet,” after all. Not “no.” He could wait. His body groaned at the delay, but his mind told it to get stuffed. “It’s fine, Margot. I understand.”

She nodded, then stood up. “I should probably go to bed now. Thank you for a lovely evening.” A pause, as if she were deciding what she should do next. Then she went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, and even that faint touch of her lips to his skin was enough to get his blood racing all over again.

His hands wanted to reach out to her, to pull her close, but he willed himself to stand still, to simply say, “You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

Another nod, and then she was gone, heading up the staircase to her room. Lucas stood in front of the fire for a long moment, body still throbbing with need, then let out a sigh as he went to bank down the fire.

If only his own emotions could be so easily controlled.

M
argot woke even earlier
than usual, opening her eyes and blinking at the faint half-light of pre-dawn. For a second or two, she couldn’t recall where she was, didn’t recognize the high ceiling or the long drapes at the window, so different from the wooden blinds in her own house. Then she realized she was sleeping in Lucas Wilcox’s home, and that he was just a door or two down the hall from her.

And with that realization came the recollection of the way he had kissed her the night before, of how solid and strong his body had felt pressed against hers. He could never know how close she’d come to not stopping him. In fact, now she was regretting that she had. Wouldn’t that be the best way to deal with the situation? Just let her emotions go for once, no matter what happened?

Even if nothing ultimately came of it, at least she’d have had one spectacular lay.

But her brain had put on the brakes, and so she was lying here alone, and not next to Lucas.

Damn it.

Scowling, she shoved back the bedclothes and went to the window, pushed the curtains aside so she could see what the storm had wrought. Although she was wearing a long-sleeved sleep shirt, she could feel the cold seeming to emanate from the very glass itself, and she wondered what the temperature must be outside. Way below freezing, that was for sure.

The world in every direction had been blanketed in white, the branches of the trees drooping with snow, the deck half buried. Across the pristine expanse of the backyard, Margot could see one set of prints marring the snow. Deer, maybe?

She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes after six. Well, she was up, so she figured she might as well take a shower and get ready for the day. She had no idea whether Lucas was a late or an early riser, and her cheeks heated a bit as she thought how she would now know the answer to that question if she’d only allowed things to progress to their logical conclusion the night before. He did play golf. She had a vague idea that golfers tended to get up early.

Well, whether he was an early riser or not, she still needed to get herself put together. Somehow it seemed as if it would be easier to face him with her makeup on and her hair done, so she went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower, impressed by how quickly it got hot. The same process would’ve taken twice as long with the balky water heater in her cottage.

But she wasn’t going to start comparing apples and oranges. No, she’d just stand here and let the hot water run over her, rinsing away some of last night’s encounter, allowing her to focus on the start of a new day. It did feel good, so she lingered there longer than she normally would, until at last she began to feel guilty about the water she was using up. No doubt this modern and up-to-date house could handle two people bathing at once, but she didn’t want to risk Lucas having a lukewarm shower whenever he did get up.

She got out of the shower, dried off, climbed into her underwear, and went to choose her clothes for the day. It seemed fairly clear that they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon, and so she put on a new pair of jeans and another sweater, this one a dark purple. After that it was time to dry her hair and put on some makeup, and by that point she felt more or less ready to face the world…or at least Lucas Wilcox.

The house felt quiet, calm, as she opened her door and went out into the hall. No sign of Lucas, not even the distant whispery sound of a shower running, and she hesitated for a moment. Would it seem odd to be roaming around the house when he wasn’t even up? But she could use some tea, if he had any. And maybe she’d grab the little sketchpad from her purse and try her hand at a rendering of all those tall pines blanketed with snow. It would probably be a dismal failure, but at least it would give her something to do.

After fetching the sketchpad and a pencil, she went back out to the hall and then moved cautiously down the stairs. It felt colder here, and she wondered if the house had a dual-zone heating system. If it did, she certainly had no idea how to operate it. Well, getting some hot water going would help to warm up the kitchen at least.

She entered the kitchen, and set down the sketchpad and pencil on the counter. On the stovetop she spied a bright red kettle — empty, of course — and she picked it up, then filled it with water before replacing it on the back burner. To one side of the refrigerator was the pantry, so she opened one of the doors, hoping she’d be able to find some tea. She didn’t spy any at first, but she did see canned beans and cunning little packets of pre-made sauces, so at least they wouldn’t completely starve if they did end up trapped here for a while. One cupboard over, she finally found a brand-new box of Darjeeling, still with the cellophane wrapper on it.

Despite herself, she smiled. How had Lucas known that was her favorite? She couldn’t recall ever mentioning it to him.

A bit more exploration led her to locate a nice sturdy mug of what looked like hand-fired and hand-painted earthenware. She wondered if it was the work of a local artisan, possibly someone in the Wilcox clan. It felt smooth and sturdy under her fingers, and she set it on the counter as she opened the box of tea and then dropped a bag into the mug.

A minute later, the kettle began to whistle. She lifted it from the burner as quickly as she could, since she really didn’t want to wake Lucas up if he still was asleep. Pausing, she listened, but didn’t hear anything. Not that that necessarily meant much; in a house this big, would she even hear him moving around?

With a shrug, she poured the hot water over the tea bag, then went to peer out the glass door that overlooked the deck. All was quiet, the skies overcast, the air completely still. She retrieved the sketchpad and flipped to a fresh page, taking her pencil and roughing in the tall, slender shapes of the trees, the deck railings blunted by snow. The trees weren’t so difficult, but she couldn’t quite get the snow-topped railings right. They kept looking like flattened marshmallows.

“You never told me you were an artist.”

She started and glanced over her shoulder. Lucas stood a few feet away, fully dressed, although his hair still looked a little damp. His jaw was dusted with dark stubble, which meant he probably hadn’t shaved.

“I’m not an artist,” she said carefully, closing the sketchpad. “Connor’s an artist. I just like to draw things.”

He came around the kitchen island and plucked the pad from her fingers before she could protest, then flipped it back open to the sketch she’d been working on. “It’s good.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just doodling.”

With a grin, he said, “Margot, the weird loops and squiggles I put on the pad by the phone when I’m talking to someone are doodles. This is way beyond that.”

While a part of her enjoyed hearing the praise, another was more than a little irritated by the way he’d just taken the sketchpad without so much as a by-your-leave. “I don’t think so, but you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Thank you. And my opinion is that you’re good.” He handed the sketchpad back to her and headed over to where the coffeemaker sat. “I see you found the tea.”

“I did,” she replied, recalling that it was probably past time to pull the tea bag out of the mug. She hurried over and began to extract it, then paused.

“The trash is under the sink,” Lucas offered, clearly guessing the reason for her hesitation.

“Thanks.” As she disposed of the used-up bag, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a quart of milk. “Do you doctor your tea as badly as you do coffee?”

“Not quite to that extreme, but yes, I do take milk.” She approached him, and he extended the carton to her. Maybe it was an accident, or maybe it was on purpose, but his fingers brushed against hers as she took it, and a little thrill went through her.

Ignoring that unwelcome
frisson
, she poured some milk into her tea, then asked, “Sugar?”

“Far left side of the pantry.”

As Margot fetched it, he busied himself with getting the coffeemaker going. The domesticity of the scene just seemed to underscore for her how odd the situation was. They’d kissed, but they certainly hadn’t slept together. Was this a date…an assignation…a friendly sleepover? She had no idea anymore.

She cleared her throat. “Do you think the roads are plowed yet?”

He slanted an amused glance in her direction. “What, planning a quick getaway?”

“No,” she said at once. “That is, I was just curious.”

The coffeemaker began chugging away, and the thick, rich scent of percolating coffee filled the kitchen. If only it tasted as good as it smelled.

“It’s still pretty early, so I don’t know if they’ve made it out here yet. Main priorities are the major streets, obviously.” He leaned against the counter and glanced out the window. “Of course, it’s sort of a moot point if I don’t get the snowblower out on the driveway.”

The idea of Lucas Wilcox trundling a snowblower up and down his lengthy driveway was so amusing that she barely held in a chuckle. “You, with a snowblower?”

“Well, if I don’t do it, who will? I’ll admit my cousin Darrell is in pretty high demand on days like today, but his parents obviously have first priority. Besides, they live way at the other end of town, so I doubt he’d be able to get here any time soon. I don’t mind blowing snow. It’s kind of relaxing.”

“Can I watch?” she asked, after taking a sip of tea.

“If it amuses you,” he replied. He was smiling, but the way the dark eyes seemed to reach across the room and connect with hers told Margot that he wasn’t entirely casual about the whole thing.

“I’ve just never seen anyone use one before. The main road in Jerome is always plowed because they have to keep the highway open all the time, and besides, even when we do get snow, it’s only a few inches most of the time. Nothing that can’t be handled with a shovel.”

He gave a mock-shudder. “I don’t even want to think about tackling that driveway with a shovel.”

She couldn’t really blame him for that. It was a very big driveway. But first things first. He couldn’t take on that driveway, even armed with a snowblower, on an empty stomach. “I saw you were doing okay for canned goods. What about breakfast? I can make us some eggs and toast or something, if you’ve got the supplies.”

“Anything you could possibly want,” he replied, and opened the refrigerator so she could get a good look inside. And he was right — she saw several cartons of eggs, a package of bacon, another one of ham, and yet another of sausage. She lifted an inquiring eyebrow at him, and he added, somewhat apologetically, “I wasn’t sure which one you liked best, so I got all of them.”

“Okay, now I’m really not worried about starving.” She considered a moment, then said, “Let’s do the ham, if that’s okay. I haven’t had it for a while, and bacon is so messy.”

He fetched everything and brought it over to the stove. “I think I can manage the eggs — ”

“It’s fine,” she cut in. “Weren’t you just saying yesterday you didn’t want to poison me with your cooking? But if you can take care of the toast — ”

“Sure. Sourdough, wheat, or English muffins?”

She wanted to laugh, but settled for replying, “Sourdough? And are scrambled eggs okay?”

“Sure.”

They both went to work — or at least, he put the loaf of sourdough near the toaster oven and then fetched the pans she needed. As she cracked the eggs into a bowl, she reflected that she could get used to this sort of cozy domesticity. Bustling around the kitchen with Lucas was certainly more enjoyable than her lonely ritual of toast and tea…and although she couldn’t deny that he was good to look at pretty much all the time, there was something about the way he looked in the morning, with his hair not combed all the way and his fine jaw shadowed with just enough stubble to enhance the strong bones rather than obscure them.

Once everything was done, they sat down with their food on the barstools that lined one edge of the bilevel kitchen island. Lucas took a bite of his eggs and let out a sigh. “So, are all you McAllister witches good cooks?”

“Scrambled eggs aren’t that difficult, Lucas.”

“You’d be surprised. I may or may not have killed a pan or two in the pursuit of decent scrambled eggs.”

She chuckled. “Well, you do have to pay attention. As to your question, I have no idea, since I’m a long way from sampling everyone’s cooking. But I’ll admit that everything we put out at our Thanksgiving get-together is very good.”

Looking thoughtful, he remarked, “I’d wrangle an invitation from Angela, but she’s obviously staying put up here for Thanksgiving this year.”

“Well, you could go with me,” Margot said, surprising herself. Where the hell had that come from?

Apparently she wasn’t the only one who was surprised, because he replied, his tone gently teasing, “Are you really willing to plan something with me a whole two weeks in advance?”

She glanced over at him. They were sitting side by side, probably not even a foot apart, and she’d been doing what she could to ignore that dangerous proximity the whole time she’d been eating breakfast. Maybe it had still played with her mind, getting her to make an offer she knew she shouldn’t have. His eyes met hers, and her heart gave a painful little thump.

How long was she going to keep pretending?

Not very, it seemed. “Yes, I am,” she said, speaking so quietly the words were barely above a murmur.

A long pause. Then she felt his left hand brush along her right knee, and a shiver went through her. “I can’t tell you how glad it makes me to hear you say that,” he told her, his tone also quiet, but no less intent for all that.

Unsure how to react, she reached out and picked up her now-lukewarm mug of tea, then took a large swallow. “Well,” she said, attempting to adopt a teasing tone and not sure how well she was doing, “I did tell you the other day that you’d started to wear me down.”

“And that’s all it is? You’re just tired of fighting me?”

Her fingers suddenly felt cold, despite being wrapped around the mug, which was still faintly warm. “I think we both know it’s more than that.” Should she set the mug down? She was afraid that if she did, Lucas would reach out to her, and while some part of her wanted that, she still needed the fragile distance between them to tell her she still had some control of the situation.