Oh no, hes very much alive, she said, nodding. Im surprised you havent seen him. He follows me everywherehes in my milk, in my brownies, in my cake, she said as Flynn reached for her hand, covering it with his, letting his fingers slide up her wrist, then wrap around it, so that he could feel the delicate bones.
And what of your pudding? he asked, studying her hand. Is he there as well?
Absolutely, hes there, too, she said, her eyes sparkling as she turned her wrist in his hand. And he sneaks in my purse when Im not looking and wraps himself in bright red and silver tinfoils so that I cant resist him .
The lights flickered, indicating one of the poets would begin soon.
Thats really a very clever idea, Flynn murmured. Ill have to give it a go.
Her laugh sounded different somehow, and when he glanced up, the smile had gone from her face. She lifted her gaze from his hand on her wrist and said, I cant do this.
Cant do what? he asked, leaning over to take in the fragrance of her hair.
I cant pretendits not right.
Flynn froze for a moment, thought he was going to hear some sort of confession. He slowly moved back, so that he could see her face.
Cant pretend? Are you pretending?
I mean I should really tell you that you are here with me now under false pretense, she said, releasing her breath in a rush.
How can that be? he asked, his finger caressing the inside of her wrist. I believe I asked you here.
I know you did, but thats because She paused, looked surreptitiously about, and Flynns heart began to beat a little faster.
Because?
She turned her gaze to him again, winced a little. Because I I put a spell on you, she said quite low, just as someone took the stage and the crowd began to applaud.
Flynns hand stilled on her wrist, and in the midst of that applause, he looked deep into her lovely eyes. I beg your pardon?
Rachel glanced around again, leaned a little closer. When you said I was a sorceress, I thought you knew. Im not really one, I just tried it, and I I put a spell on you, she said in a horrified whisper.
Flynn waited a moment or two for the punch line before asking, You arent joking, are you?
Unfortunately, no. She sighed sadly. Its really true. If you think about it, the two times weve seen each other, I was really a mess, and normally, guys like you wouldnt ask girls like me for coffee.
Hed been with her up until that statement, willing to play along, but that didnt make the slightest bit of sense. Why wouldnt I? he asked, truly confused. Because Im British?
British ? she echoed incredulously and suddenly laughed.
And what makes you think Ive only seen you twice? he asked, moving his hand a little higher, to the crook of her elbow. How do you know that I havent seen you a million times and wished for just this moment?
Rachel blinked. Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. You saw me before that day by the phone thing?
Actually, Id seen you on campus. Which, incidentally, is how I discovered your weaving class.
Campus, she repeated weakly, her gaze falling to his mouth again and stirring something deep inside him.
Ive been doing a bit of work there, and I saw you one day. Several times, actually. Enough that I wanted to meet you. Granted, the day I met you at the phone was a coincidence, but it seemed like every time I found you after that, you were rushing off and away from me. I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands.
No, Rachel murmured. No way. I put a spell on you!
He was suddenly struck with the image of her doing that strange little dance in her living room, and felt his blood start to rush hot. The whole notion was terribly seductive somehow, and he couldnt quite suppress his grin. It is true that Im completely under your spell, he said as he leaned into her again, his nostrils filling with the curious scent of vanilla and cinnamon buns, his lips just a hairsbreadth from her lips.
Ahem . If I could have everyones attention, the man on stage said dispassionately. Our first poet tonight is Marianne Breck.
Flynn touched his lips to Rachels, felt a spark ignite.
Marianne cleared her throat. What is love? It is red, red, red . What is hate? It is white, white, white !
Rachel made a little sound deep in her throat, a soft sigh of some sort, and the spark in Flynn was instantly fanned into a flame. As Marianne droned on about how red and white she was, Flynn could feel the red of his own body, red desire, spreading through him with the quickness of light. He moved his hand from Rachels wrist to her neck, felt the earring she wore bouncing against his knuckles, felt the rapid beat of her pulse, the warmth of her skin. His other hand found her waist and then the small of her back and he held her there, so that he could explore lips that were full and succulent, softly delectable.
He drew her bottom lip between his teeth, gingerly tested the soft pliability of it, then slipped his tongue into her sweet mouth. She opened up beneath him like a bloody flower, tilting her head to accommodate him.
Frankly, that kiss surprised Flynn. Hed not intended this to happen, had not intended to do much of anything but talk but the memory of her strange little pagan dance and of her wrapped in that towel, along with the oddly invigorating scent of vanilla and her assertion that she had cast a spell on him spurred him into territory hed not intended to enter.
At the moment, it hardly seemed to matter, as his body was too interested in her mouth, the baby softness of the skin at her neck, and the velvet lobe of her ear, and Flynn imagined that mane of hair tumbling down around them as they made wild, pagan love.
My love is red , my hate is white ! Marianne insisted from the stage. But what color is my soul ?
Who cares ? Flynn thought in the midst of thundering applause and whistles for Mariannes rather bland color scheme. But with the applause, he felt Rachel pull away, and reluctantly lifted his head.
She blinked up at him, her lips curved into a wonderfully Cheshire little smile of pleasure. Okay, she said, her hand lifting to brush aside the lock of hair on his brow. You cannot tell me that wasnt the result of a spell.
Flynn grinned. Lets get out of here, shall we? He stood, helped Rachel from her chair, and escorted her out as Marianne trotted out another appallingly bad bit of poetry. Water runs swift, the moon sinks low
They walked out onto the sidewalk, and Rachel paused to adjust her shawl around her shoulders. She turned a brilliant smile to him, one that was shrouded in lavender and lovely, soft light. Thanks. Thanks so much for asking me for coffee, Flynn.
Whatyoure going? he asked, surprised by his disappointment.
I really should. I have to get up and go to work, she said, and laughed a little. I mean, such that it is. I wouldnt call it work, really, but still, I should strive not to screw it up. She took a step toward the car park, looked at him to see if he was coming.
This was definitely not how he wanted the evening to end, but he reluctantly stepped up beside her, and together, they walked down the sidewalk toward the tiny car park. But just before they reached it, Rachel stopped and turned, pressed her back against the brick wall of the coffeehouse and peered up at Flynn. How I mean, may I ask how, ah, how long are you in the States?
Indefinitely, Flynn said.
Oh. She glanced at the car park, drew her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. Do you think I mean, are you planning ?
Her voice trailed off; she bit her lip again. Flynn stepped close to her, lifted her face to his. Id really like to see you again, Rachel Lear, he said sincerely. If thats quite all right with you.
She seemed to consider it for a moment, but then Flynn saw the light of a smile in her eyes. Maybe, she said. But Ill have to speak with chocolate first. He has all my attention, you know. And then, of course, I really should consult the spell book.
If I may, Id like to go on record as not really caring for eyes of newts, if you please.
Oh! Oh no she said, and laid a hand lightly on his chest, tapped one finger. No newt eyes, okay but I hope youre okay with newt tongues.
What, you think me a complete rube? Of course Im quite all right with tongues. Its just the eyes. Flynn grinned, covered her hand with his. Then shall I ring you up?
Yes, please, she said, and the brilliant light in her eyes spilled over to her whole face. Ill just jot down the number, she said, already fumbling around in her big tote bag. And while she rummaged around for a pen or paper, Flynn honestly couldnt help himselfhe dipped his head again, kissed the delightful curve of her neck.
Rachel let out a contented sigh and stopped rummaging about her bag. Flynn took that to mean carry on, and he straddled her legs with his, put his hands on her waist as his lips moved across her skin, along the line of her jaw, to her mouth. Her enormous bag hit him in the foot when she dropped it to lace her arms around his neck, and they stood there, making out like two teenagers, until someone pulled out of the car park and honked at them.
Flynn stepped back, chuckling a little, and picked up her bag.
He made sure she was safely tucked away in her car before leaving, and kissed her once more. Cheers, he said, with a little wave, and walked away, her number in his pocket, a happy jaunt to his step.
He got in his rental, pulled out, and moved down the street, his mind sort of numb and his body uncomfortably hard, and really looking quite forward to their next encounter.
BEHIND him, Rachel watched him speed off, and released a long, blissful sigh. The spells had worked. He thought she, Rachel Lear, was sexy . He wanted to see her again! The most magnificent guy in the whole wide world wanted to see her . Rachel Lear. Again !
With a squeal of happiness, Rachel turned in the opposite direction and puttered home, having completely forgotten that she had earlier wondered how he had learned of her weaving class, as it was her own doing and not associated with Brown University.
WHEN Myron showed up for work at the Rhode Island Historical Preservation Society curator offices Wednesday morning, the head curator, Darwin Richter, stopped by his cube with a bespectacled gentleman who was wearing a Windbreaker and jeans.
Id like you to meet Detective Keating, Darwin said. Hes from the Rhode Island State Police and hes been looking into the spate of thefts weve had.
Oh! Myron said, coming instantly to his feet.
This is Professor Tidwell, Darwin explained to the detective. Hes the one who knows our catalog backwards and forwards. He prepares all our insurance claims.
Yeah, I read about that forklift accident, the detective said. Weird that it happened when these thefts happened, huh?
Yeah, Myron said, and timidly stuck out his hand.
Detective Keating flashed a warm grin and grabbed his hand, shook it so hard that Myron feared something tore in his shoulder. Good to meet you, Professor, the detective said cheerfully. Mr. Richter here says youll be able to help us make sense of all this stuff, he said, pointing at a file he held.
Yes! Of course! Myron quickly assured him. Anything I can do to help!
Yeah, the detective sighed, shaking his head. When someone steals from a museum, hes got to be scum.
Ah-so- lute -ly! Myron quickly agreed.
I mean, you need money, you hold up a bank or something, right? You dont take from a museum! That just hurts everyone!
I couldnt agree more, Myron said, folding his arms across his chest. Darwin also shook his head, as if offended by the very suggestion someone would steal from a museum.
I wonder why they do it, the detective continued. Its not exactly easy to fence this stuff, is it?
I guess some people still feel disenfranchised, Myron opined, positioning himself on the corner of the desk in his cubicle. They see stately homes from a bygone era, figure that society owes them somehow, and think theres no harm in taking a trinket here or there.
Right, the detective said thoughtfully. But its really more than trinkets, wouldnt you say? From what Mr. Richter was telling me here, some of these things might look pretty ordinary, but in actuality, are really very valuable. You know thatyou did the insurance work. But I wouldnt think the average Joe would know how valuable they were.
Myron shrugged. I think you underestimate the average Joe, detective. Many art thieves are highly educated people.
The detective nodded, seemed to ponder that for a moment, his gaze intent on Myron. And then he cocked his head to one side and asked, Do you think were dealing with art thieves, Professor?
A strange heat filled Myrons collar, and he quickly and stood up. Who knows? Im just theorizing, thats all. So when do you want to start looking at the catalogs? he asked.
The detective smiled. Now, if thats all right with you.
You bet, Myron said. Maybe we could go down to the library. Theres a lot of ground to cover and my desk is really small.
That would be great, the detective said, and smiled in a way that made Myron flush hotly.
GREAT, it was middle school all over again, like anyone needed to go back there, and especially not Miss Fortune.
Yet after that toe-curling kiss, Rachel could hardly hear the autopsies being piped into her head over the Dictaphone for all her thoughts shouting at her. So she typed fast and furious so that she could rush home to see if he called.
So what if that was a little on the juvenile side? She was certain that sophisticated women like her sisters had, at least once, anyway, lived and breathed each moment wondering if some guy had called back during the dayand even if they hadnt, she couldnt help it! She could not seem to think of anything but Flynn. Flynn Bond, the complete anti-Myron.
When she finished up for the day (having typed an astounding twelve autopsy reports), she drove straight home, did not pass Go, did not collect two hundred dollars, and even waved at Mr. Valicielo as she pulled into the drive. And again, as she stepped out of her car, when Mr. Valicielo instantly appeared beside her, rake in hand, she cheerfully assured him that shed do something about that tree.