Face the Fire

"What did she say when you told her?"



As Sam paced his office, Mac lifted his hands. "That it has surrounded her all her life, but is just being more blatant about it now."



"Yeah, I can just hear her saying that. When we were - before I left the island, we talked about it a couple of times. She'd read up on it more than I had at that point. That's probably still true. The woman can absorb a book before most of us get to chapter two. She was so confident about it all. Good would overcome evil as long as good was strong and faithful."



"She's both of those. What I didn't tell her was that my readings picked up several different - let's call



them fingerprints - on her side of the line. I'm assuming they'd be yours."



"Just because she doesn't want my protection doesn't mean she isn't going to get it."



"Whatever you're doing, keep it up."



Sam wandered to the window, looked out on the new terrace across the street. She had taken in the tables she'd put out for the weekend, and the crew was setting the slate in place. "How did she look today?"



"Spectacular."



"You should see her when she uses real power." Then he glanced back at Mac. "But I suppose you have."



"Late last winter - a call to the four elements. It took me half a day to come to my senses. I wonder if she uses the Wiccan equivalent of a dimmer switch on that face of hers for the everyday."



"No. The power punches it up, as if it wasn't enough already. Beauty like that blinds a man, muddles the brain. I've asked myself if it's that that pulls me to her."



"I can't answer that."



"I can now. I've loved her all my life. Before I knew what love meant, after I tried to redefine it. It's a nasty blow to finally understand that now, when she doesn't love me. Or won't."



He turned back, eased a hip onto the edge of his desk. "All right, scientifically speaking - or theoretically, academically, whatever you like - is my being here - no, loving her now - putting her at greater risk?"



"Your feelings don't count." As soon as he said it, Mac winced. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."



"I get it. It's her feelings that tip the scale, one way or the other. In that case, I'm going to assume that trying to rekindle her feelings, or change them, won't hurt her. If you think otherwise, I'll hold off on that until after September."



"I can't tell you."



"Then I'm going with the gut. If nothing else, I intend to be as close to her as I can when it comes to the sticking point. Even the circle can use a guard dog."



He called her that night, at home, just as she was settling in with a book and a glass of wine.



"I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."



"No." Mia pursed her lips as she studied the play of light and liquid in her glass. "Thank you for the flowers. They're lovely."



"I'm glad you liked them. I am sorry we argued yesterday. That I took my mood out on you."



"Accepted."



"Good. Then I hope you'll have dinner with me. We can call it a business meeting, to discuss the details of Caroline's tour stop. Would tomorrow night suit your schedule?"



So pleasant, she thought. So smooth. That was when you had to watch him most carefully. "Yes, I suppose."



"I'll pick you up, then, say seven-thirty?"



"There's no need. I can easily walk across the street."



"I had somewhere else in mind and you usually take the late afternoon and evening off on Tuesdays. No point in you changing your routine just for this. I'll pick you up. We'll keep it casual."



She'd nearly asked for specifics before she decided he wanted her to. "Casual's just fine. I'll see you tomorrow."



She hung up, went back to her book. But found it hard to concentrate. The day before, she thought, they'd raked up the past with all its wounds and bitterness. Had she trapped him by being so blindly in love, so sure of her own feelings and so confident of his? Could he have been so selfish, so cold, that he had cast her aside rather than share his own mind and heart, rather than give her a chance to understand?



How foolish and shortsighted of both of them, she thought now.



Still, blame, excuses, reasons, none of that changed what had happened. None of it changed, nor would she have it change, who each of them had become. It was best to bury it again and go on as they were. Cautious friends, careless lovers, with no plans to be more.



From his current attitude, it seemed he agreed with her on that one point. And yet . . .



After setting it aside, Mia said to her cat, "He's up to something."



On the other side of the village, Sam made a hurried second call. "Nell? It's Sam Logan. I have an emergency. A confidential emergency."



It was a matter of sharpening the details. To hone some of them, he had to wait until Mia left the store the next afternoon. He also concluded that the only way to deal with Lulu was to be direct. Inside Cafe Book he gestured her over to a display of CDs. A CD titled Forest Serenity was tucked in a slot labeled Playing Now.



"Which one's her favorite?"



Lulu adjusted her glasses. "Why?"



"Because I'd like to buy her favorite."



Always ready for a sale, Lulu ran her tongue around her teeth. "You buy five, you get the sixth half price."



"I don't need half a dozen - " He broke off, hissed. "Okay, I'll buy six. Which ones are her favorites?"



"She likes them all or they wouldn't be in here. It's her store, isn't it?"



"Right." He started to pluck some at random.



"Don't be in such a damn hurry." She brushed his fingers aside. "When she gets in before me, she tends to put one of these three on."



"Then I'll take these three. And these."



"We sell books, too."



"I know you sell books. I'm just . . . What would you recommend?"



She hosed him, but Sam decided it was money well spent. Or well enough. It wasn't as if he couldn't use a hundred-dollar coffee table book on Renaissance art, or this week's top ten bestsellers. Or the six CDs, and the three audiotapes. And the rest of it.



At least when Lulu had rung him up, she'd laughed. And meant it.



He left Cafe Book several hundred dollars poorer, and with a great deal left to do in a short amount of time.



Despite that, he arrived at Mia's door at exactly seven-thirty.



She was just as prompt, and stepped out carrying a slim file.



"Notes," she said. "On the event. And copies of the flyer that went out, the store's newsletter, and the ad that will run for the next two weeks."



"Can't wait to see them." He gestured toward his car. "Want the top up?"



"No, let's keep it down."



She noted he'd meant casual. He wore dark trousers and a blue T-shirt. Once again, she had to suppress the urge to ask him where they were going for dinner.



"By the way" - he gave her a light kiss before he opened the car door for her - "you look wonderful."



All right, she thought. Smooth and lightly flirtatious. She could play that game.



"I was just thinking the same thing about you," she replied as she slid into the car. "It's a lovely evening for a drive down the coast."



"My thoughts exactly." He walked around to the driver's side, got behind the wheel. "Music?"



"Yes."



She settled back, calculating how much time she would allow him to seduce her, then lifted her eyebrows in surprise as flutes played on the speakers. "An odd choice for you," she commented. "You were always more fond of rock, particularly if it was loud enough to slam the eardrums."



"No harm in changing the pace now and then. Exploring different avenues." He lifted her hand, kissed it.



"Broadening horizons. But if you'd prefer something else . . ."



"No, this is fine. And aren't we accommodating?" She shifted, her hair flying around her face. "The car handles well."



"Want to try it out?"



"Maybe on the way back." Deciding against trying to puzzle him out, for now she sat back to enjoy the rest of the ride.



And when he drove through the village without stopping, she tensed up again. She studied the yellow cottage when he parked in front. "Odd, I didn't realize you'd turned this into a restaurant. I believe that's a violation of your lease."



"It's temporary." He got out and came around the car for her. "Don't say anything yet." Again, he lifted her hand, brushed his lips over her knuckles. "If you decide you'd rather go somewhere else, we'll go somewhere else. But give it a minute first."



Still holding her hand, he led her around the house rather than into it. On the freshly mowed lawn a white cloth was spread. It was surrounded by candles not yet lit, and pillows in rich colors and fabrics. Beside it was a long basket overflowing with lilacs. He lifted it. "For you."



She studied the flowers, then his face. "Lilacs are out of season."



"Tell me about it," he said, holding the basket out to her until she took it. "You always liked them."



"Yes, I've always liked them. What is all this, Sam?"



"I thought we'd have a picnic. A compromise between business and pleasure, public and private."



"A picnic."



"You always liked them, too." He leaned forward to brush his lips over her cheek. "Why don't we have a glass of wine, and you can think about the idea?"



To refuse would be both cold and ungracious. And, she admitted, cowardly. Just because she'd once imagined them happily married and having picnics on the lawn by their own little cottage was no reason to slap at him for trying to give her a pleasant evening.



"I'd love some wine."



"I'll be right back with it."



She let out a little sigh when he was out of earshot, and when the back door swung shut behind him she lifted the basket of lilacs and buried her face in them.



Moments later, she heard the music of harp and pipe drifting from the house. With a shake of her head, she sat down on one of the pillows, put the basket of flowers beside her, and waited for him to come back.



He brought not only wine but caviar.



"Some picnic."



He sat, and in an almost absent gesture, lit the candles. "Sitting on the grass doesn't mean you can't eat well." He poured the wine, tapped his glass to hers. "Slainte."



She nodded in acknowledgment of the Irish toast. "You've been tending the little garden."



"In my limited capacity. Did you plant it?"



"Some of it, and some is Nell's doing."



"I can feel her in the house." He heaped beluga on a toast point. "Her joy in it," he said and offered the caviar to Mia.



"Joy is one of her greatest gifts. When you look at her, you don't see the horror she's been through. It's been an education to watch her finish discovering herself."



"How do you mean?"



"With us, it always was. The knowing. With Nell it was finally unlocking a door, then stepping through it and finding a room full of fascinating treasures. The first magic I showed her was how to stir the air. Her face when she did it . . . it was wonderful."



"I never taught anyone. I did attend a weekend seminar on Wicca a few years ago, though."



"Really?" She licked caviar off her thumb. "And how was that?"



"It was . . . earnest. I went on impulse, and actually met a few interesting people. Some of them with power. One of the lectures dealt with the Salem trials, and segued into Three Sisters Island."



He helped himself to the caviar. "They had most of the facts, but not the spirit. Not the heart. This place . . ." He skimmed the woods, listened to the beat of the sea. "It can't be summed up in a fifty-minute lecture." He looked back at her. "Will you stay?"



"I've never left."



"No." He brushed her hand with his. "For dinner."



She picked up another toast point. "Yes."



He topped off her wine before he rose. "It'll take me a minute."



"I'll give you a hand."



"No. It's under control."



Under control, he thought as he went back to the kitchen, thanks to Nell. Not only had she prepared everything and delivered it, but she'd left him a detailed list of instructions - one, he'd discovered, that even the culinary retarded could follow.



Blessing Nell, he managed to serve the tomato slices in oil and herbs and the cold lobster.



"It's lovely." Mia stretched out comfortably as she enjoyed the meal. "I had no idea you were such a whiz in the kitchen."



"Untapped talents," he said and smoothly changed the subject. "I'm thinking of buying a boat."



"Are you? John Bigelow still makes wooden boats to order. Though he only does one or two a year now."



"I'll go see him. Do you do any sailing now?"



"Occasionally. But it was never a passion of mine."



"I remember." He touched her hair. "You preferred watching boats to being on one."



"Or being in the water rather than on it." She glanced over as a group of teenagers raced by, using the shortcut from one of the neighboring summer rentals to the beach. "Mr. Bigelow rents boats, too, but if you want to try your hand again before you buy, you're better off talking to Drake at Seafarer. He's built up a very nice rental business."



"Drake Birmingham? I haven't seen him since I've been back. Or Stacey. How are they?"



"They're divorced. She took the kids - they had two - and moved to Boston. Drake remarried about six years ago. Connie Ripley. They have a little boy."



"Connie Ripley." Sam flipped through mental images as he tried to place her. "Big brunette with a lot of teeth."



"That would be Connie."



"She was just ahead of me in school," he recalled. "Drake must be at least - "



"He's on the other side of fifty." Mia twirled her wineglass by the stem. "The age difference, and the speculation about a blistering affair between them causing the marriage to break up, was the hot topic on-island for a good six months." She plucked up another bite of lobster. "Nell really outdid herself. The lobster's delicious."



He winced. "Tagged. Do I lose points?"



"Not at all. By hiring Three Sisters Catering, you show wisdom and good taste. Now." She crossed her legs, picked up her file.



"I love looking at you." He traced a fingertip over her ankle. "Any light, any angle. But just now, when the sun's going down, and the candles are tossing light, I love looking at you."



It fluttered in her blood. The words, the tone, the look in his eyes as he shifted toward her. Lightly, his hand cupped the back of her neck. Sweetly, his lips rubbed against hers. The flutter turned to a melting. She breathed him in, along with the scent of lilacs and candle wax. And her head took one long, lazy spin.



"Sorry." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then eased back. "There are moments when I can't keep my hands off you. Let's see what you've got here."



What she had was a case of weak knees and dizzy confusion. He'd kissed her bones away one moment and was now briskly reviewing her file.



"What is this about, Sam?"



"Business and pleasure," he said absently and skimmed his hand down her back before taking out her copy of the upcoming ad. "This is great. Did you design it?"



Settle down, she ordered herself. "Yes."



"You should send a copy to her publicist."



"Done."



"Good. I've already seen the flyer, but I don't think I told you how effective it is."



"Thank you."



"Problem?" he asked nonchalantly.



She felt her teeth clench at his mild question. Irritated that she was irritated, Mia composed herself. "No. I appreciate your input." She took a deep breath. "I really do. This is a big event for the store. I want it done not just right, but perfectly."



"I'm sure Caroline's going to enjoy herself."



There was something, some subtle something in the way he said the name. "You know her personally?"



"Hmm. Yeah. This is a nice touch, having Nell make a cake that reproduces the book jacket. The flowers. You may want to change them to pink roses. I seem to recall she prefers those."



"You seem to recall."



"Uh-huh. I see here you're planning to have champagne and chocolate in her suite as a welcome gift from the store. I'd suggest, since the hotel would already provide this amenity, that we add a couple of things and combine it. From the hotel and the store."



Mia tapped her fingers on her knee, then made herself stop. "That's an excellent idea. Perhaps some candles, a book on the island, that sort of thing."



"Perfect." He skimmed through the e-mail and faxed correspondence between Mia and the publicist, nodded. "I can't see you've missed a trick. So . . ." He laid the folder aside, leaned toward her again. When his mouth was a breath from hers, she pressed a hand to his chest. Smiled. "I'd like to freshen up."



She got to her feet, took her wine with her, and walked into the house. Once in the kitchen, she took a good look around. It was admirably tidy, but then she doubted if he used it except for brewing his first hit of coffee in the morning. He'd always been a cliche in the kitchen. The man who could burn water.



She saw Nell's instruction sheet lying on the counter, and softened. She wandered into the living room, pursing her lips in consideration when she spotted the coffee table book. There were candles here as well, and he used them. It made her wonder what rituals and meditation techniques he practiced when he was alone.



Like her, he'd always been a solitary witch.



There were no photographs, but she hadn't expected them. The pair of lovely watercolors on the wall was unexpected. Garden scenes, she mused. Soft and serene. It surprised her that he hadn't selected more dramatic and bold images.



Other than the candles and paintings, and the obviously new and unread book, there was little of Sam Logan in the living area of the cottage. He hadn't surrounded himself with the bits of comfort that were so essential to her.



No flowers or little pots of plants, no bowls of colorful stones or glass. Since she had pried this far - and she reminded herself she was both his lover and his landlord - she didn't scruple to walk into his bedroom.



There was more of him here - the scent, the feel. The old iron bed she'd bought for the cottage was made up in an almost militarily efficient dark blue spread. The floors were bare. But there was a book on his nightstand, a thriller that she'd enjoyed herself, marked with one of his business cards. The single painting here was bold and dramatic. An old stone altar rose out of rocky ground into a sky vivid with the triumphant red streaks of sunrise.



On his dresser was a large and lovely chunk of sodalite that she imagined he used for meditation. His windows were open, and she could smell the lavender she'd planted herself. Because it made her yearn - the simplicity, the fragrance, that almost ridiculously masculine sense of him - she turned away from it.



In the tiny bathroom, she freshened her lipstick, dabbed the perfumed oil she had made herself on her throat, her wrists. Since Sam was priming her for a seduction, she would accommodate him. But not until she was home again, on her own ground.



She could play toy and tease just as skillfully as he.



When she came back out, he'd already switched the dinner service for glass bowls filled with ripe red strawberries and rich whipped cream.



"I wasn't sure if you wanted coffee, or more wine."



"Wine." A confident woman, she thought, could afford to be just a bit reckless. Night was sliding in. She sat beside him, letting her fingers dance through his hair before she reached for a berry. "I had no idea . . ." Deliberately, watching him, she ran her tongue over the berry, then nipped in.



"That you were interested in Renaissance art."



Some circuit in his brain seemed to cross wires. He could almost hear it fizzle. "What?"



"Renaissance art." She dipped her finger into the cream, licked it off. "The book in your living room."



"The . . . oh." He managed to tear his gaze away from her mouth. "Yes. It's a fascinating period."



She waited until he'd coated a berry with cream, then leaned over playfully and took a bite of it.



"Mmm," she purred and slid her tongue over her top lip. "Do you prefer Tintoretto's depiction of the Annunciation, or Erte's?"



Another circuit snapped. "Both are brilliant."



"Oh, absolutely. Except, of course, Erte was a sculptor, Art Deco, and born centuries after the Renaissance."



"I assumed you were referring to Giovanni Erte, an obscure and impoverished Renaissance artist who died tragically of scurvy. He was very unappreciated."



The laugh rolled out of her and tightened every muscle in his stomach. "Oh, that Erte. I stand corrected."



This time she nipped his bottom lip instead of a berry. "You're awfully cute, aren't you?"



"I paid through the nose for that book. I imagine Lulu's still cackling about it." He let her feed him a berry. "I went in to buy some music and came out with fifty pounds of books."



"I like the music." She lay back across the white cloth, her head on an emerald-green pillow. "It relaxes me. Makes me think about floating in a warm river in a shady wood. Mmm. My head's full of wine."



She stretched, lazily so the thin fabric of her dress slithered over her curves. "I don't suppose I'll be able to drive your sexy car tonight after all."



She waited for him to tell her she could drive it in the morning, to ask her to come inside, to stay with



him. And when he lay beside her, traced a fingertip down her throat, over the rise of her breasts, she smiled.



"We can take a walk, let the sea air clear your head a bit." He caught the flicker of surprise on her face just before he lowered his mouth to hers.



He nibbled, nipped, let his hands roam. He felt her yield, the softening of her body, the quickening of her pulse. To torment them both, he trailed his fingers along her leg, skimming them under her dress to the warm, silky skin of her thigh, circling the witch mark.



"Unless . . ." He slid a finger under the edge of her panties at the hip. Closed his teeth, lightly, lightly, over her breast through the soft cotton of her dress. "You're not in the mood for a walk."



She felt more than reckless now, and arched her hips in invitation. "No, a walk isn't what I'm in the mood for."



"Then . . ." He bit, just a little harder. "I'll drive."



And when he rose, held out a hand, she gaped at him. "Drive?"



"Drive you home." Seeing her in speechless shock was, he thought, nearly as satisfying as . . . No, not even close to as satisfying, he admitted. But it was precisely the reaction he'd hoped for. He pulled her to her feet, then bent down to pick up her file and her flowers. "Don't want to forget these."



She recalculated on the drive home. He assumed, correctly, she thought, that she wouldn't stay with him at the cottage. And he'd decided, also correctly, that in order to complete the seduction, he would need to maneuver her into her own bed.



And that, Mia thought as she leaned back to watch the stars, was exactly where she wanted him. Since he'd gone to so much trouble, and it had been sweet of him, she would let him . . . persuade her. Once they'd had sex, her mind and her body would be back on an even keel. When they pulled up at her house, she felt fully in control of the situation. "It was a lovely evening. Absolutely lovely." The look she sent him was as warm as her voice as he walked with her to the door.



"Thanks again for the flowers."



"You're welcome."



At the door, with her wind chimes singing, and the lamplight glowing against the windows, he ran his hands up her arms, down again. "Come out with me again. I'll rent a boat, and we can spend a lazy day on the water. Swim."



"Maybe."



He cupped her face in his hands, tangled them in her hair as he kissed her. Going deeper when she made a quiet sound of pleasure. When she pressed invitingly against him, he reached behind her, opened the



door.



"Better go in," he murmured against her mouth.



"Yes. Better." Nearly dizzy with need, she stepped into the house, and turning, caressed his cheek. He thought she looked like a siren.



"I'll call you." With a hand that he considered admirably steady, he pulled the door closed between them.



They had, he thought as he walked to the car, just had their first official date in eleven years. And it had been a doozy.