Your Magic Touch (5 page)

Maury patted him on the back. He knew Willie Jo was still suffering from their last, and failed, attempt at love-matching. He wondered why wizards were even needed for the process, because Love Doves seemed to operate just fine on their own most of the time. The same could not be said, however, of wizards.

The drill was that the Love Dove would fly off and take an object from their next matchmaking project. One would think the process could be speeded up if wizards selected their own humans.

Wrong.

Or so they had learned when Willie Jo fell helplessly, totally, inescapably into infatuation with a lovely, black-haired, turquoise-eyed, American actress. Poor Liz Turner.

Willie Jo’s most fervent wish had been to help Liz find happiness. They’d tried to help her find her perfect match, but without the Love Dove to guide them, they’d more than failed. Maury had lost count of how many disastrous marriages she’d had since they’d butted in.

Hiding was definitely preferable to failure.

Frannie took one look at
her “room” and freaked. “Your boss is a jerk. You know that?”

Mrs. Dryndyl’s lazy eye appeared to wander, but otherwise she didn’t react to Frannie’s statement. “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”

Frannie ignored her and turned back to look at the bedroom she’d been given. It was an effing throne room. She’d never in her life seen anything this fancy, elegant—unnerving. The entry hall at Haliday Hall had been daunting, but it was nothing compared with this—excess.

She couldn’t begin to take it all in. From gold-leafed embellished fir-downs, to gold-leafed decorated pillars framing what looked like a bed a monarch might sleep in, it was all too much. Even the bed itself. It had a gold—and she was sure it was real gold—headboard. Instead of pillows, it had one of those fancy roll things. Overhead, draperies woven from the finest silk and twilled metallic cloth framed the headboard, then extended out to overhang the bed slightly, and even that was festooned with carvings and cupids and gold leaf.

A plush white carpet, unmarred by any stain or foot print, covered the floor. The furnishings must have come directly out of one of England’s castles, and fresh flowers rioted in expensive crystal vases on every surface in the room. Draperies lined the two windows at the far side of the bedroom with fabrics and carvings identical to those over the bed. An elaborate balustrade framed by the pillars separated the bed from the rest of the room.

Some people might dream of sleeping in a museum, but Frannie wasn’t one of them. Even a careless footprint might permanently mar the carpet. If she touched anything, she might damage it.

Sinclair Haliday was pure evil.

He wanted her cowed, too scared to utter a peep. He’d deliberately tried to throw her off balance by giving her this room. He wanted her intimidated. She should have expected something like this from him after his ridiculous comment about blackmail.

There was no way she could ever concentrate in this room. The only thing she could think about was the bill she’d get for breakage. Anger made her hands shake, which made things worse, of course, but he wasn’t going to push her around. “This won’t do. Take me to Mr. Haliday, at once.”

Mrs. Drundyl nodded and led Frannie back down the labyrinthian hallway.

By the time they’d returned to the front of the mansion, Frannie had altered her plans for her expense-account dinner from lobster to surf-n-turf. Harold owed her big time.

Considering the workout she received just moving from one wing to the next, she didn’t need to worry about excess calorie consumption. The walk also served to cool her temper somewhat.

Mrs. Drundyl paused outside a room Frannie hadn’t yet seen, and announced, “The Parlor.”

Frannie hadn’t had time yet to figure out exactly what she’d say to Mr. Sinclair Haliday, and she took a moment to consider it before stepping into the room.

It didn’t help that the parlor wasn’t the least bit parlor-like. Although some might consider it a bit cozier than her assigned bedroom, the blasted gold crap had been strewn throughout this room as well. The parlor was richly paneled, softening all the gold-leaf, and offered a bit more color than the white on whites in Frannie’s bedroom.

Scarlet draperies, tied back with gold tassels, of course, covered windows flanking a central fireplace. Above the fireplace, a portrait of a loving couple appeared to be more modern than the other furnishings. The fireplace was made of a light marble with a dark thread running through it. Placed between the door and the fireplace were a loveseat, a sofa and a scattering of chairs and tables spread over a lovely antique blue, red and white oriental carpet. And, like in her room, vases of long-stemmed roses were everywhere, set off by a few lush green ferns. But this room, although lavish, was more livable.

Sinclair Haliday sat in a chair reading on the far side of the room. Sunlight dappling in from the window picked up highlights in his dark hair. Frannie felt a moment’s discomfort in spying on him this way. He didn’t look moody or cruel in this light. He looked—attractive and sinfully appealing, the long lines of his form spread carelessly in the chair. With the cast of anger missing from the planes of his face, he appeared younger than she’d first taken him to be, not much more than her twenty-six years. Perhaps thirty?

She turned to Mrs. Drundyl, wondering why she hadn’t announced Frannie, but the housekeeper was gone. She hadn’t made any noise at all when she’d departed.

Frannie addressed Sinclair. “Hey.”

He didn’t react.

Her eyes narrowed. Although he reclined in the chair, to all appearances in relaxation, something about the way he held himself sent out signals to her psyche. Something that called to the lonely kid hidden deep inside her, the one who had never belonged. What was it?

She noted he was seated off to the side of the room, not anywhere near where the center of the action would occur if others occupied the room. It was as though he’d set himself apart from the room, and, for that matter, from the house. His autocratic appearance blended perfectly with the elegance of his surroundings, but contrasted with this apparent inner need of his to step back from them. The dichotomy intrigued her.

She cleared her throat as she entered the room and stepped onto the soft plush of the oriental carpet. Silence hit her like snowfall. “Hey, dude.”

Again, he didn’t react.

Although he was apparently at ease, neither his arms nor elbows touched the arms of the chair. His forearms hovered over the chair arms, held there by a steely force of willpower. He wasn’t at ease at all—he sat at full attention. Had he noticed her?

Was he ignoring her on purpose? Grrr.

She marched to his side. “Yo, Sin Boy. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

Sin Boy?
Sinclair rolled the
words
around in his mind. He rather liked the phrase. It was a hell of a lot more interesting than
research scientist
or
condensed matter physics and biological specialist
. Of course, he’d heard rumors that some of his PhD students had been referring to him as Dr. Hunk Haliday—but sadly, he suspected that was merely a rumor designed by his female students to suck up—and it almost worked. Just like now.

He lowered his book on quantum particulate and gazed into the irate blue eyes of Frannie Fielding. He wondered what he’d done to incur her wrath,  considering he was the one bearing the brunt of injustice. If anyone had bones to pick, it was him.

She looked hopping mad, not a bad thing given that every time she shifted, her close-fitting cotton shirt shifted as well, giving him a nice view of her hills and valleys. Not bad at all.

But it was distracting as hell. “You have a problem?”

“Ha. That’s an understatement. Actually, I think
you’ve
got a problem. A big one.”

If she didn’t stop wiggling, his
problem
might grow very large. For a tabloid reporter, she was awfully—cute. Her reddish-blond hair was mussed, as though she’d just gotten up after a tumble in bed. She couldn’t be more than five foot three or four, yet her body was evenly proportioned, giving her the appearance of height.

What he noticed most about her, though, were her eyes. They were a nice shade of blue, his favorite color, ringed with a darker shade, making them stand out from her face. Right now her eyebrows were drawn into a furious scowl, but that didn’t make her any less—cute.

Sinclair couldn’t recall actually using the word before, even in his own thoughts, except when referring to small mammals, like kittens, puppies or lab rats. Quite obviously, something about Frannie must remind him of vermin. “Can you be more specific?”

She sighed, pulling back a strand of hair that had fallen, partially covering one of her eyes. “My room. Of course.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Drundyl can fix whatever it is you find unsettling. You’re in the Princess Room?”

The noise Frannie made sounded a lot like the snort of an angry bull. “I might have
known
that’s what you call it.”

She didn’t like the name of her room? “Would you like me to rename it?”

“What?”

“You have a complaint about the name of your room?” He was beginning to wonder if her wits were as skewed as those of the ghost hunters. Quite a group they made. Maybe all
Spy
employees had to pass insanity tests prior to being hired.

“Noo.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “I have a problem with the throne room you assigned to me. You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Ah.” He didn’t quite know how to answer her. He’d purposely assigned her to a nice room, but for some reason she was upset about it. This had to be one of those situations where a guy is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. He cleared his throat. “Can you be more specific about the problem?”

“Sure. The room has enough gold in it to pay down the National Debt, plus, between the crystal and the acres of white fabric and carpet, I can only imagine the bill you’re going to give me for damages if the tiniest thing happens to anything. You knew I couldn’t work in that museum. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? To either scare me into submission or keep me from doing my job.”

Scare her with a nice room? It was an odd concept. “So, you’re saying the room is too—”

She cut him off. “Fancy. Elegant. Deliberately intimidating. Sin Boy.”

“I’m not certain we have the sort of room you seem to require.” Sinclair stood and calmly laid his book on a nearby table. “You want cheap and tawdry? There’s a hotel not far—”

Again she cut him off. “Give me an effing break. All I want is a bedroom I can work in. A normal one.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll be happy to switch with you. You can have
my
bedroom.”

She considered his offer for a moment. “I could get work done in it?”

“I often do.”

She looked at him warily. His gaze was drawn to the way she chewed her lower lip as she considered his suggestion.

“Would you like to check it out before agreeing?”

“Fine.”

He gestured for her to come with him and motioned for her to go first. As he directed her toward his bedroom, he cast several glances at her attractive, denim-clad derriere, and had to remind himself that she was both the most annoying and annoyed woman he’d ever met.

It didn’t matter how cute she was, or how hot. She was the enemy sent to spy on his family. He needed to keep that in mind, despite the temptation to do otherwise.