Heaven and Earth (11 page)

Some people might
have been nervous at the prospect of spending an evening in the home of a witch. Being nervous, they might have stocked up on wolfsbane or carried a pocket full of salt.

Mac went armed with his tape recorder and notebook and a bottle of good Cabernet. He’d waited patiently through his first week on the island, hoping for this initial invitation.

He was about to dine with Mia Devlin.

It hadn’t been easy to resist driving up to her house on his own, hiking through her woods, poking around in the shadows of the lighthouse. But that would have been, by his standards, rude.

Patience and courtesy had paid off, and she’d casually asked him if he would like to come up for dinner. He’d accepted, just as casually.

Now, as he drove up the coast road, he was filled with anticipation. There was so much he wanted to ask her, particularly since Ripley shut down each time he tried to question her. He had yet to approach Nell.

Two warnings by two witches made a definite point. He
would wait there, until Nell came to him or the path was cleared.

There was plenty of time. And he still had that ace in the hole.

He liked the look of her place, the old stone high on the cliff, standing against time and the sea. The art of the gables, the romance of the widow’s walk, the mystery of the turrets. The white beam from the lighthouse cut through the dark like a wide blade, swept over sea, the stone house, the dark stand of trees.

It was a lonely spot, he thought as he parked. Almost arrogantly alone and undeniably beautiful. It suited her perfectly.

The snow had been neatly cleared from her drive, from her walk. He couldn’t imagine any woman who looked like Mia Devlin hoisting a snow shovel. He wondered if that was a sexist opinion.

He decided it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with her being a woman, and everything to do with beauty. He simply couldn’t imagine her doing anything that wasn’t elegant.

The minute she opened the door, he was certain that he was right.

She wore a dress of deep forest green, the sort that covered a woman from neck to toe and still managed to tell a man that everything under it was perfect. Was fascinating.

Stones glittered at her ears, on her fingers. On a braided silver chain a single carved disk glinted almost at her waist. Her feet were seductively bare.

She smiled, held out a hand. “I’m glad you could come, and bearing gifts.” She accepted the bottle of wine. It was her favorite, she noted. “How did you know?”

“Huh? Oh, the wine. It’s my job to dig up pertinent data.”

With a laugh, she drew him inside. “Welcome to my home. Let me take your coat.”

She stood close, let her fingertips graze his arm. She considered it a kind of test, for both of them. “I’m tempted to say come into my parlor.” Her laugh came again, low and rich. “So I will.” She gestured to a room off the wide foyer. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll open the wine.”

Slightly dazed, he walked into a large room where a fire burned brightly. The room was full of rich color, soft fabrics, gleaming wood and glass. Old, beautifully faded rugs were spread over a wide-planked floor.

He recognized wealth—comfortable, tasteful, and somehow female wealth.

There were flowers, lilies with star-shaped petals as white as the snow outside, in a tall, clear vase.

The air smelled of them, and of her.

Even a dead man, Mac imagined, would have felt his blood warming, his juices flowing.

There were books tucked on shelves among pretty bottles and chunks of crystals and intriguing little statues. He gave those his attention. What a person read gave insight into the person.

“I’m a practical woman.”

He jumped. She’d come in silently, like smoke.

“Excuse me?”

“Practical,” she repeated, setting down the tray that held the wine and two glasses. “Books are a passion, and I opened the store so I could make a profit from my passion.”

“Your passion’s eclectic.”

“Single channels are so monotonous.” She poured the wine, crossed to him, her eyes never leaving his. “You’d agree, since your interests are varied as well.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“To a variety of passions, then.” Her eyes laughed as she touched her glass to his.

She sat on the low sofa, smiling still as she patted the cushion beside her. “Come, sit. Tell me what you think of our little island in the sea.”

He wondered if the room was overwarm or if she simply radiated heat wherever she went. But he sat. “I like it. The village is just quaint enough without being trite, and the people friendly enough without being obviously nosy. Your bookstore adds a touch of sophistication, and the sea adds glamour, the forests mystery. I’m comfortable here.”

“Handy. And you’re comfortable in my little cottage?”

“More than. I’ve gotten considerable work done already.”

“You’re a practical soul, too, aren’t you, MacAllister?” She sipped, red wine against red lips. “Despite what many would consider the impracticality of your chosen field.”

It felt as though the collar of his shirt had shrunk. “Knowledge is always practical.”

“And that’s what you seek under it all. The knowing.” She curled up, and her knees brushed his leg, lightly. “A seeking mind is very attractive.”

“Yeah. Well.” He drank wine. Gulped it.

“How’s your . . . appetite?”

His color rose. “My appetite?”

He was, she decided, absolutely delightful. “Why don’t we move into the dining room? I’ll feed you.”

“Great. Good.”

She uncurled, trailed fingertips down his arm again. “Bring the wine, handsome.”

Oh, boy, was his only clear thought.

The dining room
should have felt formal, intimidating with its huge mahogany table, the wide sideboards and high-backed chairs. But it was as welcoming as her parlor. The colors were warm here, too, deep burgundy shades mixed with dark golds.

Flowers in the same hues scented this air as well and speared out of cut crystal. A fire crackled, like an accompaniment to the quiet music of harps and pipes.

The trio of windows along the wall was left uncovered to bring the contrast of black night and white snow into the room. Perfect as a photograph.

There was a succulent rack of lamb and the light of a dozen candles.

If she’d been intending to dress a stage for romance, she had succeeded, expertly.

As they ate she steered the conversation into literature, art, theater, all the while watching him with flattering attention.

It was almost, he thought, hypnotic. The way she looked at a man, fully, directly, deeply.

Candlelight played over her skin like gold on alabaster, in her eyes like gilt over smoke. He wished he could do better than rough pencil sketches. Hers was a face that demanded oil and canvas.

It surprised him that they had so much common ground. Books enjoyed, music appreciated.

Then again, each of them had spent considerable time learning of the other’s background. He knew she’d grown up here, in this house, an only child. And that her parents had given most of her day-to-day care into Lulu’s hands. She’d gone to college at Radcliffe and had earned degrees in literature and business.

Her parents had left the island before she’d graduated, and rarely returned.

She came from money, as did he.

She belonged to no coven, no group, no organization, and lived quietly and alone in the place of her birth. She had never married, nor had she ever lived with a man.

He wondered that a woman so obviously, so elegantly sexual, had not done so.

“You enjoy traveling,” she said.

“There’s a lot out there to see. I guess I enjoyed it more in my twenties. The kick of packing up, taking off, whenever I wanted, or needed to.”

“And living in New York. The excitement, the stimulation.”

“It has its advantages. But my work can be done anywhere. Do you get to New York often?”

“No. I rarely leave the island. I have all I need and want here.”

“Museums, theater, galleries?”

“I don’t have much of a thirst for them. I prefer my cliffs, my forest, my work. And my garden,” she added. “It’s a pity it’s winter, or we could take a stroll through my garden. Instead we’ll have to settle for coffee and dessert in the parlor.”

She treated him to delicate profiteroles, which he enjoyed. Offered him brandy, which he declined. A clock from somewhere deep in the house bonged the hour as she once again curled herself on the sofa beside him.

“You’re a man of great personal restraint and willpower, aren’t you, Dr. Booke?”

“I’m not sure that’s ever come up. Why?”

“Because you’ve been in my home, alone with me, for more than two hours. I’ve plied you with wine, candlelight, music. And yet you haven’t brought up your professional interest in me, nor have you tried to seduce me. Is that admirable, I wonder, or should I be insulted?”

“I thought about both those things.”

“Really? And what did you think?”

“That you invited me into your home, so to bring up my professional interest was inappropriate.”

“Ah.” She tilted her head, deliberately giving him the opening to lean in, take her mouth. “And the seduction?”

“If there’s a man who’s been within a half a mile of you and hasn’t imagined seducing you, he needs therapy immediately.”

“Oh, I do like you. More than I’d counted on, actually. Now, I’ll apologize for baiting you.”

“Why? I liked it.”

“Mac.” She leaned over, touched her lips lightly to his. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we?”

“I hope so.”

“I might have enjoyed being more, but it would have been brief, and it would have complicated destinies.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both, and more. We’re not meant to be lovers. I didn’t know you’d already realized that.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I regret it a little.”

“I’d be annoyed if you didn’t.” She tossed back her curling flood of dark-red hair. “Ask the professional question that’s most on your mind. I’ll answer if I can.”

“The circle in the woods by the cottage. How did you cast it?”

Surprise had her pursing her lips. She rose to give herself a moment to think. “That’s a good one,” she said, wandering to the window. “How did you find it?” Before he could answer, she waved a hand. “No, never mind. It’s your job. I can’t answer a question that involves others who may not wish it.”

“I know about Ripley, and Nell.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you?”

“From research, process of elimination, observation.” He shrugged his shoulders. “From being good at what I do. I haven’t approached Nell because both you and Ripley objected.”

“I see. Are you afraid what we’d do if you ignored our objections?”

“No.”

“No. Just that simple and quick. A courageous man.”

“Not at all. You wouldn’t use your gift to punish or harm—not without cause or provocation—and then only to protect. Ripley doesn’t have your control or dedication, but she has her own code, possibly more strict than yours.”

“You read people well. And you’ve approached Ripley? You’ve spoken to her?”

“Yes, I have.”

The corners of her mouth bowed up, but there was little humor in the smile. “And you say you’re not courageous.”

There was enough bite to the words to intrigue. “What happened between the two of you?”

“That’s a second question, and I’ve yet to decide if I’ll answer the first. Until Ripley confirms your supposition—”

“It’s not a supposition, it’s fact. And she has confirmed it.”

“Now you surprise me.” Puzzling it out, Mia paced to the fireplace, from there to the coffeepot to pour, though she had no desire for coffee.

“You’d protect her, too,” Mac said quietly. “She matters to you, a great deal.”

“We were friends, as close as friends can be, for most of our lives. Now we’re not.” She said it simply, though it was anything but simple. “But I haven’t forgotten what we were, or what we shared. Even so, Ripley can protect
herself. I can’t think why she’d have admitted to you, so quickly, what she has. What she is.”

“I boxed her in.”

He hesitated only a moment, then told Mia of the energy burst, the woman on the beach, the hour he’d spent with Ripley in the cottage.

Mia took his wrist, examined it herself. “Her temper was always a problem. But her conscience is even stronger. She’ll suffer for having harmed you. She’d have transferred the burns, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“That would have been her way to do penance, to make it right and just again. Taking the burns from your flesh onto her own.”

He thought of the heat, the pain. Swore. “Damn it, that wasn’t necessary.”

“For her, it was. Let it go.” She released his wrist, wandered about the room, and settled her mind. “You want her, sexually.”

He shifted on the sofa. The blush wanted to creep up his neck. “I’m not entirely comfortable getting into that subject with another woman.”

“Men are so often squeamish about sex. Discussing it, not having it. That’s all right.” She came back, sat again. “Now to answer your question—”

“I’m sorry. Would you object if I recorded your answer?”