The Shoppe of Spells (10 page)

Simple words and reality slapped at her. He knew her mother. Dorian knew her mother. In this place, everyone knew the woman who’d given her away. Maybe this man knew why she gave her away.

He seemed to read her mind. “No. I didn’t know of your existence until after her death. However, I did know her. Trust me when I say this, Morgan, she wouldn’t have given you up if she hadn’t had a damned good reason.”

Dorian appeared at the door with an inlaid teak tray holding several cups, a pot of steaming tea, and a plate of croissants.

“Ah, refreshments,” Dr. Yancy exclaimed and shifted a tray table toward the bed. Dorian set the tray down, pulled chairs forward and poured the tea. From beside her bed, he pulled an elegant smaller tray, which he placed on her lap and set a cup of tea and a croissant on it.

“Teresa?” The taste of butter floated across her tongue.

“Actually, yes. She’s the baker.” Dorian stated.

The doctor sipped his tea. “How are Teresa and Bill?” he asked but didn’t look up.

“They are doing well,” Dorian said. “You ought to stop by the B & B while you’re here. I know Teresa would love to see you.”

“Can’t this time.” He set down his cup. “In fact,” he said, looking at his watch, “I’m late as it is.” He wrapped the croissant in a napkin and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll finish this on the way back to Atlanta.”

Dorian rose. “Thanks for coming. She’s okay?” He followed the doctor to the door.

Dr. Yancy turned. “She’ll be fine.” He looked back at Morgan, “Take it easy today.” He held out his hand to Dorian, “Stay. Finish your tea. I know my way out.” He shook Dorian’s hand. “You’re a good pharmacist, an even better compounder. Apply more salve if she has pain. Several more drops won’t hurt either.”

Dr. Yancy looked back at Morgan, sitting regally among the pillows, the spitting image of her mother. “It’s been a privilege. Remember—if you need me.” He smiled at her and headed out the door. “Amazing,” he muttered as he trod down the steps.

They both listened for the faint tinkle of the bell. When Dorian turned back to her, she asked, “Pharmacist? Compounder? And here I thought you were a shopkeeper.”

“I am. I apprenticed under Thomas after I finished my education. I figured, with the kinds of things people were asking for, it would behoove me to avoid legal ramifications.” He walked back, sat, and reached for his tea.

How a man could drink tea out of a dainty cup and still appear so devastatingly masculine—Morgan felt the warmth spread through her limbs. Her voice squeaked when she spoke, “Where did you go to college?” She felt her face flame.

If he noticed, he gave no indication. “Emory in Atlanta. Biochemistry and Pharmacology.”

“Wow.”

“But I’m a lousy bookkeeper,” he added.

She laughed and wondered if he knew about her accounting minor.

The bell sounded downstairs. “Damn,” he hissed, “I thought I left the closed sign up.”

“Yoo-hoo, Dorian?” a familiar voice called.

“Coming, Miss Alice,” he called. “Sorry,” he whispered to Morgan and left.

She leaned back in the pillows, listening to his warm voice flow over the chatter below. She looked around. She lay in a queen size four-poster in the middle of a truly Victorian bedroom suite. She could have been time-warped to the 1800’s except for the cool air blowing out of the air conditioning vents. An ornately carved armoire stood in the corner with a matching dresser and tilted cheval mirror across from it. A fainting couch covered in a delicate stripe sat beneath the window.

Morgan’s breathing stopped. She was in the master bedroom. Her parents’ bedroom. She pushed back the covers and rose, setting the tray on the bed and walked straight to the dresser. She recognized the man and woman in the picture from the photos in the folder. They were standing in the garden; he had a hoe in his hand. A child played at their feet. Dorian. The picture went blurry. She blinked and wiped her eyes. Why was she crying? She didn’t know them.

As she turned, she caught sight of herself in the long mirror oval mirror. Her hair tumbled down her back. The thin cotton nightshirt danced just below her thighs. Bikini panties hugged her hips. Her rose nipples hardened when she looked up and saw Dorian looking over her shoulder into the mirror, his eyes riveted on her breasts.

“Are you up to getting dressed?” he asked tersely. Not waiting for an answer, he left the room.

She followed behind him and closed the door. Her hand trembled. Never had she reacted so immediately or so strongly to a man. Even an angry man. At times he was so nice to her and at others—he seemed hostile. Morgan glanced around once more. Had she met him somewhere else, some other time, she could see letting her attraction to him take a different course. This was just too awkward.

Morgan allowed herself time to take a quick shower, having found fresh towels laid out for her on the sink. She reached for the shampoo sitting on the tile ledge in the shower. As the floral scent encased her body, she inhaled the scent of the woman who gave birth to her. Somehow comforted, she finished the shower. When she walked back into the bedroom still wrapped in the towel, she found a fresh pair of jeans and a yellow oxford shirt on the bed. A drawer in the dresser was ajar. Morgan walked over and shook her head, barely suppressing the laughter at Dorian’s sense of decorum. She found the garments she needed and closed the drawer. Her fingers reached for the picture. They looked so happy, so complete. With renewed resolve, she tucked the shirt into the jeans, pulled her damp hair back, twisted it up, and clipped it.

As much as she regretted not being able to keep her half of the shop and those, oh so magnificent gardens, Morgan knew it was only right to offer it to Dorian. He grew up here. He trained to take over. It was obvious that he loved it. This quaint little town. Remembering the conversation the night before, she knew he loved the people and the people adored him. Everyone had been extremely kind to her. Even Jasmine, after she nearly blinded her. She looked like Melissa and people reacted to that. Nonetheless, she wasn’t Melissa. She just didn’t fit. Letting determination bolster her, she started down the stairs, a spring in her step.

“Dorian,” she called. Better to get this straightened out so they could get out of each other’s way and on with their own lives. She was sure Jasmine wouldn’t miss her and would be thrilled to have Dorian all to herself once more.

Midway, she saw Dorian and another man turn toward her. Her step faltered and she grabbed the rail to keep from falling.

“Rob!” she exclaimed. She didn’t miss Dorian’s scowl.

Dorian’s brooding, dark handsome features stood in direct contrast to Rob’s blonde Adonis charm.

“Morgan,” Rob flashed a smile and pushed up his glasses. Taking the steps two at a time, he stopped on the step below her. Now eye to eye, he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

“What are you doing here?” She stood on the steps, not moving.

“I talked to your parents. They told me where you were.”

She glanced at Dorian, who watched them, his chiseled features unmoving.

“They send their love.” Rob smiled at her.

She studied him, wondering what he was up to. Surely, her parents hadn’t told him what had transpired. Then she remembered they didn’t know she had stopped seeing him. God, too damn much had happened in the last few weeks. She let a huff of breath escape.

“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice flat.

He stepped back one step. “Oh,” his smile disappeared and he threw a look at Dorian, “I see how it is.”

“No.” Morgan and Dorian spoke simultaneously.

Rob raised an eyebrow. Morgan steadied herself and stepped around him, preceding him down the steps. “Dorian and I have business to conduct.” She didn’t elaborate. “This was not a pleasure trip.”

“Well, it should be,” Rob’s smile was suddenly back in place. “I am staying at the most charming bed and breakfast a few blocks down the street. Where are you staying, Morgan? We could—”

“I’m staying here.” She walked to the counter and leaned against it. Her knees felt weak.

Her eyes hurt and her head throbbed. Suddenly pissed that Rob got to stay at the bed and breakfast before she’d had a chance, she scowled at him.

Rob frowned.

Dorian interjected, “I have the paperwork. I’m ready any time you are.” He hoped she appreciated his saving her ass. “I’ll be in the cottage when you’re ready.”

“Oh, I can see I’ve interrupted.” Rob took her hand. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan grew more exasperated by the moment. Rob was giving every indication that they were a couple. She jerked her hand away.

Unaffected, he continued. “Say, why don’t we meet at the bed and breakfast later.” He turned to Dorian, who had stopped in the kitchen. “You’re welcome to join us,” he added reluctantly.

“Sounds good to me,” Dorian called over his shoulder.

“Hang on, Dorian. I’m coming with you,” Morgan called. She didn’t want a confrontation with Rob just now. She didn’t feel like playing games with either one, but especially not Rob.

Dorian whirled mid-step and walked back to the front door. “We’ll see you later, then.” He held the door open for Rob.

“Sure,” Rob said, taking the none-too-subtle hint. Morgan stepped away, barely avoiding a second kiss.

As soon as Rob was out the door, Dorian shut it, locked it and turned the closed sign over. He walked over to Morgan and grasped her arm, leading her out the back door. “Now we really have to talk.”

Chapter Six

Morgan paced back and forth in front of the cottage fireplace. She stopped, looked at Dorian sitting calmly at the table by the front window, and started pacing again. “Let me see if I have it right.” She pushed back her bangs. “This creature…this Gulatega…is some sort of parasite. It attaches to people,” she shuddered, “and sucks out their brains!” Her voice rose to a shriek.

Dorian watched her. She’d heard him. She’d understood him. She was being dramatic. “No, it’s not like that,” he emphasized. “Here’s what we know. It’s attracted to some people. It gets around them and they start having headaches, confusion, difficulty remembering. It doesn’t suck out their brains.” He rolled his eyes. “The longer they are attached—” he shook his head when she whirled on him, and corrected, “around—the person, the worse the symptoms become.”

“And just what do I have to do with this again?” She’d resumed pacing.

“You can see them. I can’t. Together our energy does something to the portal and they go back through. Unharmed. We don’t want them harmed because we don’t know what effect that would have on their dimension…or ours.”

She studied him. He still wasn’t telling her everything. She damn well knew it. “What about us?” She placed her hands on her hips. “Can it suck out our brains?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “For some reason, people like us are immune.”

“People like us?” Morgan felt like she was repeating herself.

Now Dorian was brushing back his hair. “Yeah. You know that crescent moon birthmark high on your right hip.”

Remembering the sleep shirt, her lips tightened, “I thought I dressed myself last night.”

“Don’t worry. You did.” He stood and unfastened his jeans.

She stepped back.

His blue eyes flashed. “Don’t get excited. I’m only going to show you my hip.” He pulled the one side of his jeans down, exposing his left hip. A crescent moon like hers rested lower on his hip, except it faced the opposite direction of hers. He hefted his pants back up and tucked in his shirt.

That flash of his golden skin tempted her to reach out, run her fingers across his hip, his abdomen. She didn’t realize that she had actually extended her hand toward him until his eyes drew hers. For an instant, she stood mesmerized. He took a step forward. She leapt back.

“The…the shocking thing?” she stuttered.

His lips curved into a smile, washing her in warmth. “Yeah, that. It hasn’t been so bad lately, has it?”

He was right. Since the accident, they had touched several times and a mild tingle was all she felt. Well, not all she felt, but he didn’t need to know that.

“We carry a current that, when combined, changes the harmonics of the stones, which in turn can open the portal. But, unless we’re aligned, we zap one another.”

“Then we can’t—” Her heightened color finished the thought.

“Yes, we can,” his voice was changing as he spoke. “In fact, the more we touch, the more in sync we are.”

He watched the flush move up her neck. There was innocence about her he couldn’t ignore. She drew him like a magnet, and he didn’t think it was the harmonics. The rebel in him still fought beneath the surface, not wanting her—or anyone—to be his mate by design or destiny. However, he wasn’t sure any more that he wanted her to leave.

Then there was Rob. He knew he didn’t like that guy. He wasn’t sure she liked Rob all that much, either. Something he saw. A flatness in her eyes. Not like when she looked at him. Dorian let his eyes draw hers. Her eyes met his. Sparkled. Yeah, she wasn’t doing that around Rob.

When he started talking again, Dorian’s voice was lower, huskier. He cleared his throat. Morgan did that to him—made hormones flood his system, made his brain turn to mush. He fought for control. This was too important to let attraction muddy the waters.

“I don’t know all the history. Abbott House in Atlanta has volumes of journals and information on the Gulatega, your lineage—”

“Does everyone here know about the creature? Why aren’t they frightened?”

He shifted in the chair, obviously uncomfortable, got up, walked over to the sink and filled a glass with water. He took a long drink before turning around to face her, letting the liquid cool the heat building inside of him. “Actually, very few know about it. And since most people can’t see it,” he shrugged his shoulders, “why cause panic?”

He took a step toward her, held the glass out. She looked at it, then at him. He took another step and stood right in front of her—lifted the glass to her lips.

Mesmerized, she sipped. The water was ice cold. Delicious. She licked a drop from her bottom lip, still drowning in the ocean of his blue eyes. He was staring at her lips, his own mouth slightly open. His breath fanned her face, warm and inviting. If she leaned forward just a little….

Abruptly he turned away, inhaled sharply, and set the glass down with a thud.

“Aw, hell,” he cursed and spun around.

In one swift movement, before she could think or react, he stepped forward and swept her into his arms, enfolding her body fully against his. His mouth covered hers, seeking, asking. His tongue touched the seam of her lips.

Morgan’s hands moved to his sides. There was no zap, just heat. Her eyes closed as her lips parted, welcoming him into the warmth of her mouth, like a long lost lover. She grasped his shirt in both hands, pulling him even closer and felt his hands spread across her back, heat spreading a trail of fire across through her shirt. She heard herself moan and felt the staccato beat of his heart against her own.

She was drowning in the desire that was coursing through her body. She could feel her legs getting heavy and her head became a little fuzzy. A strange pulsing seemed to drag her forward, until she felt she was becoming one with the response demanded by the hard muscular body against her.

She couldn’t breathe. The room was spinning. She gasped. A soft blackness crept around the edges of her mind and she fell into darkness.

****

Morgan eyes fluttered open to the soothing coolness of a damp cloth over her forehead and eyes. Her arms felt as though they had lead weights attached. She took a deep breath, reached up, eased the cloth away from her eyes, and blinked at the brightness in the room. She was lying on the bed in the cottage. Light streamed in through the windows in the bedroom and the front rooms, suffusing the bed in sunlight. She blinked again and felt the weight of the bed shift. She glanced over. Dorian was sitting on the edge of the bed, a frown creasing his handsome brow.

“What happened?” Her voice sounded forced, husky.

“You fainted. Are you all right?” He reached up, took the cloth and set it on a plate on the bedside table.

Memories came flooding back. Morgan shook her head slightly to clear the cobwebs and raised up on her elbows. She looked at him incredulously. “You made me swoon?”

His face took on a boyish charm as a flush crept up. He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Can’t say that’s ever happened before.”

“Oh, good grief,” she huffed and shooed him off the bed. As soon as he rose, she swung her legs around and sat up.

“You might want to take it easy.” He automatically reached out to steady her.

She flinched.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll zap you again.”

Morgan looked up into his concerned eyes and hesitantly reached out a finger, touched his arm and jerked back. Nothing. He didn’t move. She slowly reached out her hand and laid it tentatively on this bare arm. Nothing. Except the feel of his well-formed muscle moving slightly at her touch.

She looked up and found herself staring into darkening pools of blue. A streak of lust rushed through her. Good God, she had to get a grip.

Sensing her unease, he stepped back, but stayed closed enough to catch her if she fell. He watched her. Her hair had come loose and cascaded over her shoulders. She reached up in an automatic motion, undid the clasp, pulled her heavy tresses up, twisted it and refastened the clasp. Dorian found himself spellbound by such a simple task. The upward movement of her arms gently lifted her breasts beneath her shirt, the nipples hardening as they brushed the fabric.

His eyes moved downward to her small waist and the gentle flair of her hips and thighs as she sat on the side of the bed. He swallowed, knowing he wanted nothing more than to push her back on the bed and cover her body with his. The flicker of movement brought his eyes up to her mouth and he watched as her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. His groin tightened. He swallowed.

So much for his angst about her resemblance to Melissa. From this vantage, she bore little resemblance to Melissa and, probably, never would again. Yes, there were similarities, but they were so different. And this woman—Melissa’s daughter—was driving him to distraction.

Morgan watched him and watched his eyes change as his thoughts drifted away from her. Given a moment of reprieve, she stood and stepped around him, walking into the front room. Now where were they—before he’d knocked her socks off with that kiss? Oh yeah, the Gulatega. Playing back that part of the conversation, she rounded on him.

“This Gulatega thing. Just how dangerous is it?” she found herself looking around, searching for it. She went into the front room and settled at the table by the window.

He followed and sat across from her. “Depends. To us—not at all. We seem to be immune. And, before you ask, I don’t have any idea why.” He heard Meesha whine, walked over to the door and let her out. Looking out he saw Meesha chase a butterfly, not catch it, and wander off to the side of the gazebo. He turned back to Morgan.

“For those who are susceptible, it can progress until, like Alzheimer’s, the individual’s personality disappears and the body degrades.”

“Is it Alzheimer’s?” she asked, thinking ahead.

“No. We wish it were. We could run around, put those creatures through the portals and be done with it.” He shook his head. “Melissa and Thomas tried. They had a dear friend who developed Alzheimer’s at an early age. They didn’t see a Gulatega but they tried to “flush” the portal anyway—that’s what they call it when a creature can’t be seen but seems to be playing havoc in an area.” His eyes went distant, remembering. “They tried repeatedly, over the years. Nothing helped. Mrs. Lawson is now in a nursing home. She doesn’t have much longer.”

She could see his pain. She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. He looked down at her and smiled. “She used to babysit me. I adored her.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Anyway, with Melissa and Thomas here, there weren’t any creatures to speak of. If they came through they would be drawn to Melissa, and she and Thomas would send them packing.”

“Drawn to Melissa?” Morgan couldn’t help the unease that statement brought. She shivered.

That sheepish grin appeared. “Must be the irresistible charm,” he teased. “But women such as yourself and Melissa draw them like bees to flowers.”

She squirmed. “Gee, thanks.”

He shrugged. “No problem. Morgan, I mean it. They won’t harm you. And we can send them back.”

Morgan had so many questions. Creatures. Harmonics. Dimensions. She sat, staring out the window into the gorgeous play of colors in the garden, trying to grasp everything. Then she remembered. He’d said portals. Multiple. She turned her head, her eyes wide.

“You said portals, as in more than one. How many are there?”

“I don’t know. The Abbott House could probably tell you. I only know of two others on the east coast.”

“And these are watched by…?” She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

“People like Melissa and Thomas.”

Then it struck her. “Or you and I.” It was a statement, not a question. She got up from the chair and walked over to the sink, picked up the glass he’d set down, and took a drink of water.

She stood, staring out the window at the gazebo. Her fingers tightened on the glass. She set it down before she broke it and whirled around to confront him. “We’re their replacements, aren’t we?”

She watched him close his eyes. He opened them and she saw sadness. He nodded. “I’ve known for a long time that I was. I didn’t know about you.” He shook his head. “Not until recently,” he amended. “I found a picture of you. You were in your teens, I think.”

“They had a picture of me? In my teens?” She walked back to the table and slumped down. “I don’t understand. They knew where I was but they never tried to contact me. Why?”