In Her Rival′s Arms
In Her Rival's Arms
Alison Roberts
This was too important to risk playing games with. Honesty couldn’t hurt, surely?
Disarming … charming this man, even … might get him on side. Her side.
“The historical protection order,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting someone to come and want to see the house.”
“Ah …”
He was holding her gaze, and for a heartbeat Zanna had the impression he was about to tell her something of great significance. But then his gaze shifted and she could sense him changing his mind.
He nodded, as though confirming his decision. “Yes,” he said, slowly. ‘I would like to see the house.’
Should she show him? How dangerous would it be to be alone with this man? But what if he did hold the key to saving this place? How good would it be to have its safety assured by the time Maggie got home? She owed her beloved aunt so much, and a protection order would be a gift beyond price.
For both of them.
Zanna took a deep, steadying breath. And then she mirrored his nod. ‘I’ll have to lock up,’ she told him. Moving to collect the key from behind the counter took her even closer to him, and she felt that odd curl of sensation deep within again. Stronger this time. That heady mix of desire laced with … danger.
She was playing with fire.
But, oh … the heat was delicious.
In Her Rival’s Arms
Alison Roberts
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ALISON ROBERTS lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, and has written over sixty Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™ novels.
As a qualified paramedic she has personal experience of the drama and emotion to be found in the world of medical professionals, and loves to weave stories with this rich background—especially when they can have a happy ending.
When Alison is not writing you’ll find her indulging her passion for dancing or spending time with her friends (including Molly the dog) and her daughter Becky, who has grown up to become a brilliant artist. She also loves to travel, hates housework, and considers it a triumph when the flowers outnumber the weeds in her garden.
For the Maytoners, with love, in recognition of the magic you have all brought into my life. xxx
Contents
Cover (#uf807199b-6f5f-5fd6-9732-5b92b5419a4e)
Introduction (#u83dd529f-e0e7-5028-b8b3-5d3974856b42)
Title Page (#u4ba0be3e-f8fa-5e1a-8ac9-224e9b972387)
About the Author (#u8ec7a192-9d71-5e8c-9826-17a7c48a8820)
Dedication (#u1203dc2f-b0b4-5b20-b4e2-24d794d2188d)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_85d2fd61-e05d-577a-ae79-8b154491f1bb)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_7d433f13-4e12-55cd-8e45-684283e52793)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_45ee208a-1248-5fef-af41-33551ebb70f7)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_46c61524-5d8e-5ac6-8a57-6a7c40d90b45)
NO WAY WAS he a genuine customer.
Suzanna Zelensky had no need to call on any intuitive powers she might have inherited from her bloodline. Even the dark silhouette of this stranger, caused by the slant of late afternoon sunshine through the window behind him as he stepped further into her domain, radiated a palpable scepticism. He wanted nothing to do with anything this business represented. The impression wasn’t all that uncommon in the gypsy shop Spellbound and it was almost always emanated by males, but they were invariably dragged in a by a female partner.
This man was alone and yet he moved with a determination that suggested he had a good reason for entering her world. Alarm bells rang with enough force to make the back of Zanna’s neck prickle. Who was he and what did he want?
She had seen him well before he’d had the chance to see her. Had caught a clear glimpse of his face in that heartbeat of time from when he’d come through the door until he’d stepped forward into that shaft of light. Strong features with a shadowing to his jaw that accentuated uncompromising lines. A harsh but compelling face. This man wouldn’t just stand out from a crowd. He would render those around him virtually invisible. He was different. Beautiful...
Having other customers to attend to was fortunate. Zanna had time to think. A chance to consider the implications of this unusual visit and an opportunity to gather her emotional resources. She turned back to the teenage girls.
‘You’ll need a burner to use the essential oils as aromatherapy. We have a good range over here.’ The heavy silver bangles Zanna was wearing gave the movement of her arm a distinctive, musical accompaniment.
She could feel him looking at her now. A predatory kind of appraisal that should have raised any hackles she possessed but instead, disturbingly, she could feel a very different kind of response. Her skin prickled as though every cell was being stirred. Coming alive.
‘How do they work?’ One of the girls was reaching for a burner.
‘A small candle goes in the base.’ Zanna risked a quick glance behind her, maybe because she had sensed she was no longer under scrutiny. Sure enough, the man was moving, staring at the objects on display. For a moment, Zanna stared blankly at the object in front of her. What had she been talking about?
‘You put water in the bowl above it,’ she managed, ‘and sprinkle a few drops of your chosen oil on the water. As it heats, the scent is carried in the vapour.’
‘What do these ones do?’ A dark-haired girl picked up a tiny bottle.
‘Those ones are designed to complement zodiac signs. They increase your personal powers.’
He was watching her again. Listening? Quite likely, given the increase in the strength of scepticism she could sense. Scathing enough to bring a rising flush of heat to her neck. Zanna had always loathed the fact that she blushed so easily and she particularly didn’t appreciate it right now.
‘I’m Sagittarius,’ the blonde girl announced. ‘Can I open the bottle and see what it smells like?’
‘Sure.’ Zanna moved away as the girls tested the oils. Despite being acutely aware of the movements of the stranger within the shop since he’d entered, she had made no direct acknowledgment of his presence. As far as he was concerned, he had been totally ignored, which was not a practice she would normally have employed with any potential customer. They couldn’t afford to turn away business.
But this man wasn’t a customer. The dismissive rake of his glance across shelves of ornate candle holders and chalices, stands of incense and display cases of Celtic jewellery, even before the flick of a finger against a hanging crystal prism that sent rainbow shards of light spinning across the ceiling, had confirmed that his mission did not include any desire to make a purchase.
He didn’t look like someone who might have been drawn in for the refreshments available either. She could imagine him ordering a double-shot espresso to go, not lingering over herbal teas and organic cakes and cookies. Had he even noticed the blackboard menu as he’d raised his gaze? Had he been caught by the play of light on the ceiling from the prism or was he inspecting the intricate pattern of stained glass in the fanlights above the main windows?
He was moving away from her now, towards the selection of crystal stones in a basket near the window. He was tall. She knew he was over six feet in height because the circular feather and twine dreamcatchers suspended from the ceiling brushed the top of his head as he walked beneath them. His hair was black and sleek, the waves neatly groomed, with just enough length to curl over the collar of a well-worn black leather jacket. His jeans fitted like a glove and the footwear was interesting. Not shoes—boots of some kind. Casual clothing but worn in a way that gave it the aura of a uniform. Of being in command. A motorbike helmet was tucked under one arm.
Zanna could almost taste the testosterone in the air and it made her draw in a quick breath and take a mental step sideways.
Maybe those alarm bells had been ringing for a more intimate purpose. Perhaps her intuition had been overwhelmed by the raw sexual energy this man possessed. A subtle but determined shake of her head sent a lock of waist-length copper-coloured hair over one shoulder. She brushed the errant tress back calmly as she moved towards the stranger.
‘Can I be of any assistance?’
Dominic Brabant almost dropped the stone he was weighing in a careless hand. He’d only seen the profile and then the back view of this woman when he’d entered the shop because she’d been busy with her customers. He’d had a good look at that back, mind you, while wrestling with the annoyance that two silly schoolgirls presented such an effective barrier to having a private conversation.
He could wait. He’d learned long ago that patience could be well rewarded.
Maybe he would go to one of the small wooden tables, screened by bookshelves, and order one of the teas described on the blackboard menu.
A ginger tea for its energising properties, perhaps?
No. He had more than enough energy. The motivation for being here in the first place had been validated in those few minutes he’d had to take, standing out there in the street, untangling the overload of memories and emotions. He could feel it fizzing in his veins and gaining strength with every passing minute. It had to happen. Fate had provided the opportunity and it felt like the inspiration had always been there, just waiting to be unleashed. The desire to succeed was more powerful than any that had preceded his achievements so far in life.
This was personal. Deeply personal.
He blew out a breath. Maybe a soothing chamomile tea might be the way to go. He couldn’t afford to make this any more difficult than it had to be. And he wasn’t even sure that this was the woman he needed to speak to. She might simply be a shop assistant who was paid to wear that ridiculous dark purple robe and improbable hair that had to be a wig. Nobody had real hair that could ripple down their back like newborn flames.
It was just part of the image. Like the flowing clothes and heavy silver bangles. The assumption that she was probably large and shapeless under that flowing fabric and that the hair under the wig was steely grey was blown away somewhat disconcertingly by the sound of her voice at close quarters.
The witch—if that was who she was, according to the information he’d been provided with—was young and the lilt in those few words created a ripple that was reminiscent of the silky fall of that wig.
He cleared his throat as he turned to meet her gaze. ‘I’m just looking at the moment, thanks.’
A flash in her eyes let him know that she recognised the ambiguity as he continued to look at her rather than what was for sale in the shop.
The sustained eye contact was unintentional. This wasn’t the time to intimidate anyone—especially someone whose co-operation might be essential—but the proximity of the window gave this corner of the shop much more light than the rest of the candlelit interior. Enough light to see the copper-coloured rims around those dark, hazel eyes and the dusting of freckles on pale skin. And the hair was real. Or was it? Nic had to suppress an outrageous desire to reach out and touch the tendril caught on the wide sleeve of the robe. Just to check.
‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ Zanna held the eye contact with difficulty. The hint of a foreign accent in the stranger’s deep voice was only faint but it was as intriguing, not to mention as sexy, as her earlier observations. The feeling of connection was more than a little disturbing. How could such an intensity be present so instantaneously?
And, yes...he was looking for something in particular.
Something he had promised when he’d been only six years old.
‘When I’m big, Mama, I’ll be rich. I’ll buy that big house next door for you.’
Disturbingly, he could almost hear an echo of his mother’s quiet laugh. Feel her arms holding him. The sadness that would always give her voice that extra note.
‘Merci beaucoup, mon chéri. Ce sera merveilleux!’
‘No.’ The word came out more forcefully than he’d intended. He summoned at least the beginning of a smile. ‘Nothing in particular.’
His eyes were dark. Almost black in this light. Inscrutable and unnerving. Resisting the instinct to look away was almost unbearable. The strength of will this man possessed was a solid force but she couldn’t afford to lower her guard until she knew what his motives were in coming here.
He was bouncing the crystal in his palm. Zanna had the uncomfortable notion that it wasn’t just the rock he was playing with. He had a purpose in coming in here. He wanted something from her. He wanted...her?
The ridiculous notion came from nowhere. Or was she picking up a well-hidden signal?
Whatever. It was strong enough to make her toes curl. To send a jolt right through her body, sparking and fizzing until it melted into a glow she could feel deep in her belly.
Desire? Surely not. That was a sensation she thought she might have lost for ever in the wake of the London fiasco with Simon. But what if it was? What if something she’d feared had died had just sprung to life again? She couldn’t deny that the possibility was exhilarating.
It was also inappropriate. She knew nothing about this man and he could well represent a threat, both to herself and the only other person on the planet she had reason to cherish. Knowing she had to stay in control in the face of the power this stranger had the potential to wield over her physically was going to be a challenge.
And that was just as exhilarating as knowing she was still capable of experiencing desire. These last weeks, alone in both the shop and the house, had been lonely. Stifling, even.
The challenge was irresistible.
‘You’re holding a carnelian crystal.’ She was pleased to find she could keep her tone pleasantly professional. If she gave him something concrete to dismiss maybe he would reveal his true motive for being there. ‘It’s considered to be a highly evolved mineral healer that can aid tissue regeneration. It enhances attunement with the inner self and facilitates concentration.’ She smiled politely. ‘It opens the heart.’
‘Really?’ He couldn’t help his sceptical tone. His own concentration had just been shot to pieces and he was still holding the stone.
Did some people really believe in magic?
Like they believed in love?
He released it to let it tumble back with its companions in the small wicker basket. He wasn’t one of them.
‘Excuse me.’ The teenage girls had given up on the essential oils. ‘What’s in all those big jars?’
‘They’re herbs.’
It was hard to turn away from the man and that was a warning Zanna needed to listen to. A few moments to collect herself was a blessing but the task was made more difficult because the girls were staring at the man behind her now, their eyes wide enough to confirm her own impression of how different he was.
‘Common ones like rosemary and basil,’ she added, to distract them. ‘And lots of unusual ones, like patchouli and mistletoe and quassia.’
Zanna never tired of looking at her aunt’s collection of antique glass containers. They took pride of place on wide, dark shelves behind the counter, the eccentric shapes and ornate stoppers adding to the mysterious promise of the jars’ contents. They had always been there. Part of her life ever since she’d arrived as a frightened young girl who had just lost both her parents. As grounding as being here, in the home she loved.
‘They can be burned for aromatherapy or drunk as teas. They can also be used for spells.’
‘Spells.’ The girls nudged each other and giggled. ‘That’s what you need, Jen. A love spell.’ They both sneaked another peek behind Zanna and Jen tossed her hair.
‘Have a look at the book display,’ Zanna suggested, unhappily aware that her tone was cool. ‘There’s some good spells in that small, blue book.’
‘You have got to be kidding.’
The deep voice, unexpectedly close to her shoulder, startled Zanna and made her aware of another jolt of that delicious sensation. Cells that had already come alive caught alight. She could actually imagine tiny flames flickering over every inch of her skin.
‘Got some eye of newt in one of those jars?’
Here it was. The first open evidence that this man was not a genuine customer. Zanna turned, her smile tight. ‘No. We find that currants are a perfectly acceptable substitution these days.’
The giggles suggested the girls were oblivious to the tension that Zanna could feel steadily increasing. She cast a quick glance at the grandfather clock near the inner door of the shop. Only another ten minutes or so and she could close up and stop wasting her time with customers who either had no intention of buying anything or schoolgirls who couldn’t afford to. At least the girls were enjoying themselves. The stranger wasn’t. She could sense his irritation with the girls. Why? Was he waiting for them to leave? So he could be alone with her?
The flames flickered again but it was beyond the realms of possibility that the strength of the physical connection she could feel was being reciprocated. He wanted her for something, though... Of course...why hadn’t she thought of that the moment she’d seen him come in, looking as though he had ownership of whatever—and whoever—was around him? As if he had the power to snap his fingers and change her world? To give her exactly what she wanted most.
Or to take it away.
Zanna stilled for a moment. Could he have come from the offices of the city council? They were as keen as the owner of the dilapidated apartment block next door that this property be sold and both the buildings destroyed in order to make a fresh development possible. There’d been veiled threats of the council having the power to force such a sale.
There was no sound of movement behind her either. Just a deep silence that somehow confirmed her suspicion and made her apprehensive.
Maybe the girls picked up on that. Or perhaps they’d seen Zanna look at the clock.
‘Have you seen the time?’ one of them gasped. ‘We’re going to be in so much trouble!’
They raced from the shop so fast the door banged and swung open again. Zanna moved to close it automatically and, without really thinking of why she might be doing it, she turned the sign on the door around to read ‘Closed’.
She turned then. Slowly. Feeling like she was turning to face her fate.
And there he was. Relaxed enough to have one hip propped against the counter but watching her with a stillness about him that suggested intense concentration. Zanna felt a prickle of that energy reach her skin and she paused, mirroring his focus.
Something was about to happen.
And it was important.
His smile seemed relaxed, however. Wry, in fact, in combination with that raised eyebrow.
‘You don’t really believe in any of this stuff, do you?’
‘What stuff in particular?’ Zanna’s heart picked up speed. If he was admitting his own lack of interest, maybe he was going to tell her why he was really here. ‘There’s rather a lot to choose from. Like aromatherapy, numerology, crystals, runes and palmistry. And the Tarot, of course.’ Mischief made her lips curl. ‘I would be happy to read your cards for you.’
He ignored the invitation. ‘All of it.’ His hand made a sweeping gesture. ‘Magic.’
‘Of course I believe in magic. I’m sure you do as well.’
The huff of sound was dismissive. ‘Pas dans un million d’années.’
The words were spoken softly enough that Zanna knew she had not been intended to hear them but the language was instantly recognisable. He was French, then. That explained the attractive accent and possibly that aura of control, too. She might not have understood the words but the tone was equally recognisable. Insulting, even. Why was he here—when he felt like this?
She’d had enough of this tension. Of not knowing.
‘Are you from the council?’
As soon as the words left her mouth Zanna realised how absurd they were. It wasn’t just because he was French that he had that quality of being in charge. A confidence so bone deep it could be cloaked in lazy charm. This man didn’t work for anyone but himself. To suggest he might be a cog in a large, bureaucratic organisation was as much of an insult as dismissing everything that science was unable to prove. No wonder she could sense him gathering himself defensively.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’ve come about the house?’
His hesitation spoke volumes. So did his eyes. Even if she had been close enough, those eyes were so dark already she might not have picked up the movement of his pupils but he couldn’t disguise the involuntary flicker.
She’d hit the nail on the head and, for some reason, he was reluctant to admit it. Another possibility occurred to Zanna. He could be a specialist consultant of some kind and perhaps this was supposed to be an undercover inspection, in which case she might have been well advised to simply play along with the advantage of her suspicions. But this was too important to risk playing games. Honesty couldn’t hurt, surely?
Disarming...charming this man, even, might get him on side. Her side.
‘The historical protection order,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting someone to come and want to see the house.’
‘Ah...’ He was holding her gaze and, for a heartbeat, Zanna had the impression he was about to tell her something of great significance. But then his gaze shifted and she could sense him changing his mind. He nodded, as though confirming his decision. ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly. ‘I would like to see the house.’
Should she show him? How dangerous would it be to be alone with this man? But what if he did hold the key to saving this place? How good would it be to have its safety assured by the time Maggie got home? She owed her beloved aunt so much and a protection order would be a gift beyond price.
For both of them.
Zanna took a deep, steadying breath. And then she mirrored his nod. ‘I’ll have to lock up,’ she told him. Moving to collect the key from behind the counter took her even closer to him and she felt that odd curl of sensation deep within again. Stronger this time. That heady mix of desire laced with...danger.
She was playing with fire.
But, oh...the heat was delicious.
‘I’m Zanna,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Zanna Zelenksy.’
‘Dominic Brabant.’ It was only good manners to extend his hand and his smile disguised the satisfaction of confirming that she was the person he’d been hoping to meet. ‘Nic.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Nic.’
* * *
The touch of her hand was as surprising as hearing her voice had been. That familiar frisson he noted would have been a warning in years gone by but Nic had learned to control it. To take the pleasure it could offer and escape before it became a prison.
Not that he’d expected to find it here. Any more than he’d expected this opportunity to appear. Fate was throwing more than one curveball in his direction at the moment. But how was he supposed to handle this one?
He watched as Zanna dipped her head, holding her hair out of the way, to blow out the numerous candles burning on the counter. With swift movements she divided and then braided the hair she held into a loose, thick rope that hung over her shoulder. Pulling a tasselled cord around her neck released the fastening of the purple robe. Skin-tight denim jeans appeared and then a bright orange cropped top that left a section of her belly exposed. There was a jewel dead centre. Copper coloured. It made him remember her extraordinary eyes. And as for her skin...
His gut tightened in a very pleasurable clench. The notion of her being a witch was too absurd. He was quite certain he would be unable to discover a single wart on that creamy skin.
Anywhere.
Mon Dieu... His body was telling him exactly how he would prefer to handle this and it didn’t dent his confidence. It was a given that he would win in the end because he had never entertained the acceptance of failure since he’d been old enough to direct his own life, and this new project was too significant to modify.
Could what was happening here work in his favour?
Be patient, he reminded himself. He needed to go with the flow and see what other surprises fate might have in store for him.
The ripple of anticipation suggested that the reward would be well worth waiting for.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_80a6f4d5-379f-5ab1-99e7-998c8257b472)
STONE GARGOYLES SAT on pedestals, guarding the steps that led to the shop’s entrance. While Zanna fitted an old iron key into the lock and turned it, Nic took another stride or two onto the mossy pathway beneath massive trees.
Having already admitted his interest, he didn’t have to stifle the urge to look up through the branches to get another look at the house. Zanna’s distraction was fortunate because it gave him a few moments to deal with a fresh wave of the turbulent emotions that memories evoked.
It had to be his earliest-ever memory, running down a brick pathway just like this, summoned by the creak of the iron gate that announced his father’s return home. Being caught in those big, work-roughened hands and flung skywards before being caught again. Terrifying but thrilling because it was a given that nothing bad could happen when Papa was there.
He could hear the faint echo of a small child’s shriek of laughter that blended with the deep, joyous rumble of the adult.
Piercing happiness.
Nothing bad had happened while Papa had been there. Life had been so full of laughter. Of music. The sounds of happiness that had died when Papa had been snatched away from them.
The memory slipped away, screened by filters the years had provided. And he could help them on their way by focusing on the house and using his professional filter—an extensive knowledge of architecture and considerable experience in demolishing old buildings.
It really was astonishing, with the unusual angles to its bays and verandas that gave it the impression of a blunted pentagon. It was iced with ornate ironwork, intricately moulded bargeboards and modillions and, to top it all off, there was a turret, set like a church spire to one side of the main entrance, adding a third storey to the two large rooms with rounded bay windows.
A secret, circular room that begged to be explored.
Especially to a small boy who had gazed at it from over the fence.
The shaft of remembered longing was as shiny as that moment of happiness had been. The filters were like clouds, shifting just enough to allow a bright beam to shine through. Bright enough to burn.
The emotion behind this current project would be overwhelming if he let it surface. Not that his mother was here to see it happen but that only made it more important. This was going to be a memorial to the one woman he’d ever truly loved. To the man she’d loved with all her heart. To the family he’d had for such a heartbreakingly short breath of time.
He swallowed hard.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Zanna had joined him on the path. ‘The most amazing house in the world.’
A leaf drifted down from one of the trees and landed on Nic’s shoulder. Zanna resisted the urge to reach up brush it off.
‘It’s certainly unusual. Over a hundred years old. Queen Anne style.’
Had she been right in guessing that he was a specialist in old houses? ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. ‘Are you an architect?’
‘Used to be. Plus, I’ve done a lot of study. The style was taken up in the 1880s and stayed popular for a long time. The Marseilles tiles on the roof make it a bit later because they weren’t introduced until about 1901.’
The brief eye contact as he glanced at her was enough to steal Zanna’s breath for a moment. The connection felt weird but gave her hope. He knew about old houses. Would he fall in love with her house and help her fight to save it?
‘I didn’t know about the Queen Anne style until recently,’ she confessed. ‘I had to do some research to apply for the historical protection order. It’s all about the fancy stuff, isn’t it? The turret and shingles and things.’
It didn’t matter if he didn’t admit that consideration for protection was the reason he was here. Zanna was asking the question partly because she wanted him to keep talking. She loved his voice. It reflected the dark, chocolate quality of his eyes. And that faint accent was undeniably sexy.
‘It was also known as free classical,’ he told her. ‘The turret is a bit of a signature. Like those dragon spikes on the roof ridges. It looks like it was designed by an architect with a strong love of fairy-tales.’
‘Or magic?’ Zanna suggested quietly.
He shook his head, dismissing the suggestion, but the huff of his breath was a softer sound than she might have expected. ‘Typical of New Zealand to adopt a style and make it popular only after it was considered passé by the rest of the world.’
‘So you’re not a kiwi, then?’
‘By birth I am. My mother was French. A musician. She came across a kiwi backpacker who’d gone to Paris to trace his own French ancestry. She found him sitting in a park, playing a guitar, and she said she fell in love with him the moment she heard his music.’
Why was he telling her this? Were memories coming at him so hard and fast they had to escape? No. Maybe it was because he’d had more time to process these ones. They’d been spinning and growing in his head and his heart for days. They’d inspired this whole project.
‘She came back here to marry him and I was born the same year. He...died when I was five and I got taken back to France a year or so later.’
Turning points. When life had gone so wrong. He couldn’t fix that, of course. But he could honour the time when it had been perfect. Not that he could share any of that with Zanna. Maybe he’d already said too much.
‘I still have a home there,’ he finished. ‘But I also live in London.’
Zanna’s eyes were wide. ‘I’ve lived here since I was six. My parents got killed in a car accident and my aunt Magda adopted me. I’ve only recently come back, though. I’ve been in London for the last few years.’
The point of connection brought them instantly that little bit closer and Nic was aware of a curl of warmth but then, oddly, it became an emotional seesaw and he felt disappointed. So they’d been living in the same city, oblivious to the existence of each other? What a waste...
Another leaf drifted down. And then another. Zanna looked up, frowning.
‘I’d better get some water onto these trees. It’s odd. I didn’t think the summer’s been dry enough to distress them.’
‘Maybe autumn’s arriving early.’
‘They’re not deciduous. They’re southern ratas. They don’t flower very well more than once every few years but when they do, they’re one of our most spectacular native trees. They have bright red, hairy sort of flowers—like the pohutukawa. The street was named after them. And the house. But they were here first and they’re protected now, which is a good thing.’
‘Why?’
‘The trees are big enough to make it harder to develop the land—if it’s ever sold.’
‘You’re thinking of selling?’ Maybe this mission would end up being easier than expected. Done and dusted within a few days, even. Strange that the prospect gave him another pang of...what was that? Like knowing that he’d lived in the same city as Zanna without knowing about it. Not quite disappointment...more like regret?
Yet he knew perfectly well that the world was full of beautiful women and he’d never had trouble attracting his fair share of them. What was it about Zanna Zelenksy? Her striking colouring? Those eyes? The strong character?
She certainly wasn’t feeling it. Her face stilled and he could see a flash of strong emotion darken her eyes.
‘Not in my lifetime. This is my home. My refuge.’
Refuge? What did she need to run and hide from? Was there a streak of vulnerability in that strength? Yes...maybe that was why his interest had been captured. But Zanna ignored his curious glance and began walking down the path.
‘It’s part of the city’s heritage, too,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Only the council’s too stupid to recognise it. They’d rather see it pulled down and have some horrible, modern skyscraper take its place.’
It wouldn’t be a skyscraper.
It would be a beautiful, low building that echoed the curve of the river.
The Brabant Academy. A music school and performance centre, funded by the trust that would bring brilliant musicians together to nurture young talent. A serene setting but a place where dreams could be realised. A place of beautiful music. And hope for the future.
Nic followed her along the path. Heritage was often overrated, in his opinion. A smokescreen that could hide the truth that sometimes it was preferable to wipe out the past and put something new and beautiful in its place.
And this was one of those times. A final sweeping glance as he reached the steps leading to the main entrance of the house revealed the cracked weatherboards and faded shingles. Peeling paint and rust on the ironwork. Poverty and neglect were stamped into the fabric of this once grand residence and it struck deeply engrained notes in Nic’s soul.
A new memory of his father surfaced.
‘Why on earth would we want a grand old house that would take far too much money and time? We have everything we need right here, don’t we?’
The tiny cottage had contained everything they’d needed. It had been home.
The shock of moving to the slums of Paris had been all the more distressing. The smell of dirt and disease and...death.
Yes. The hatred of poverty and neglect was well honed. Memories of the misery were powerful enough to smother memories of happier things so it was no surprise that they were peeking out from the clouds for the first time ever. Maybe he would welcome them in time but they were too disturbing for now. They touched things Nic had been sure were long dead and buried. They had the potential to rekindle a dream that had been effectively crushed with his mother’s death—that one day he would again experience that feeling like no other.
The safety of home. Of family.
* * *
Zanna found she was holding her breath as she turned the brass knob and pushed open the solid kauri front door of her home.
First impressions mattered. Would he be blown away by the graceful curve of the wide staircase with its beautifully turned balustrade and the carved newel posts? Would he notice that the flower motif on the posts was repeated in the light switches and the brass plates around the doorknobs—even in the stained glass of the windows?
Maybe he’d be distracted by the clutter of Aunt Maggie’s eccentric collections, like the antique stringed instruments on the walls above the timber panelling and the arrays of unusual hats, umbrellas and walking sticks crowding more than one stand on the polished wooden floorboards.
He certainly seemed a little taken aback as he stepped into the entranceway but perhaps that was due to the black shape moving towards them at some speed from out of the darkness of the hallway beneath the stairs.
Three pitch-black cats with glowing yellow eyes. Siblings that stayed so close they could appear like one mythical creature sometimes. She could feel the way Nic relaxed as the shape came close enough to reveal its components.
‘Meet the M&Ms.’
‘Sorry?’
Zanna scooped up one of the small, silky cats. ‘This is Marmite. The others are Merlin and Mystic. We call them the M&Ms.’
‘Oh...’ He was looking down at his feet. Merlin, who was usually wary of strangers, was standing on his back feet, trying to reach his hand. He stretched out his fingers and the cat seemed to grow taller as he pushed his head against them.
Artistic fingers, Zanna noted, with their long shape that narrowed gradually to rounded tips. If Aunt Maggie were here, she’d say that this man was likely to be imaginative, impulsive and unconventional. That he’d prefer an occupation that gave him a sense of satisfaction even if it was poorly paid.
He’d said he used to be an architect. What did he do now? Consulting work with organisations like the historical protection society? It certainly seemed to fit.
Those artistic fingers were cupped now, shaping the cat’s body as they moved from its head to the tip of the long tail. Merlin emitted a sound of pleasure and Zanna had to bury her face in Marmite’s fur to stifle what could have been a tiny whimper of her own. She could almost feel what that caress would be like.
It was Mystic that started the yowling.
‘They’re hungry,’ Zanna said. ‘If I don’t feed them, they’ll be a nuisance, so would you mind if we start the tour in the kitchen?’
‘Not at all.’
She led him into the hallway—shadowy thanks to the obstructed light and the dark timber panelling on the walls. What saved it from being dingy was the large painting. A row of sunflowers that were vivid enough to cast an impression of muted sunshine that bathed the darkest point.
She knew that Nic had stopped in his tracks the moment he saw it. Zanna stopped, too, but not physically. Something inside her went very, very still. Holding its breath.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What anybody else thinks...
The involuntary grunt of sound expressed surprise. Appreciation. Admiration, even?
Okay. So it did matter. Zanna could feel a sweet shaft of light piercing what had become a dark place in her soul. Not that she could thank him for the gift. It was far too private. Too precious.
Opening the door to the sun-filled, farmhouse-style kitchen—her favourite part of the house—accentuated the new pleasure. The knowledge that Nic was right behind her added a dimension that somehow made it feel more real. Genuine. Even if nothing else came of this encounter, it had been worth inviting this stranger into her world.
* * *
The surprise of the stunning painting had only been a taste of what was to come. Nic had to stop again as he entered the huge kitchen space, blinking as he turned his head slowly to take it all in. It should be a nightmare scene to someone who preferred sleek, modern lines and an absence of clutter. It was only a matter of time before he experienced that inner shudder of distaste but at least he knew it was coming. He would be able to hide it.
Cast-iron kettles covered the top of an old coal range and the collection of ancient kitchen utensils hanging from an original drying rack would not have been out of place in a pioneer museum. The kauri dining table and chairs, hutch dresser and sideboard were also museum pieces but the atmosphere was unlike any such place Nic had ever been in. Splashes of vivid colour from bowls of fruit and vegetables, unusual ornaments and jugs stuffed with flowers made the kitchen come alive.
The shudder simply wasn’t happening. Instead, to his puzzlement, Nic found himself relaxing. Somehow, the overall effect was of an amazingly warm and welcome place to be. It felt like a place for...a family?
Abandoning his helmet on the floor, he sank onto a chair at one end of the long table as Zanna busied herself opening a can and spooning cat food into three bowls. When she crouched down, her jeans clung to the delicious curve of her bottom and the gap between the waistband and the hem of her orange top widened, giving him a view of a smooth back, interrupted only by the muted corrugations of her spine. He could imagine trailing his fingers gently over those bumps and then spreading them to encompass the curve of her hip.
Oh...Mon Dieu... The powerful surge of attraction coming in the wake of those other bursts of conflicting and disturbing emotions was doing his head in. He needed distraction. Fast.
Maybe that curious object wrapped in black velvet on the table, lying beside a wrought-iron candelabra, would do the trick. Lifting the careful folds of the fabric, Nic found himself looking at an oversized pack of cards.
Witchy sort of cards.
The shaft of desire he was grappling with morphed into a vague disquiet. It was very rare to feel even slightly out of his depth but it was happening now. There was an atmosphere of mystery here. Of eccentricity that had an undercurrent of serenity that had to come from someone who knew exactly who they were. Or something, perhaps, because he couldn’t be sure whether the vibe was coming from Zanna or the house.
Weird...
‘We keep them wrapped in black.’ Zanna’s voice was soft. And close. Nic looked up to see she had a pair of wine glasses dangling by their stems in one hand and a bottle in the other. She held it up in invitation and he nodded.
‘Sure. Why not?’
The wine was red. Blood red. His disquiet kicked up a notch.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘It just seemed like a good idea.’ Zanna wasn’t meeting his eyes. ‘A glass of wine is a nice way to wind down. We could go into the garden, if you like.’
He followed the direction of her gaze. French doors provided a glimpse of a bricked courtyard between the kitchen and a tangle of garden. An intimate kind of space.
‘I’m fine here.’ Nic cleared his throat. ‘I meant why do you wrap those cards in black?’
‘It’s a neutral colour that keeps outside energy away.’ Zanna had filled her own glass and she sat down at right angles to Nic.
‘It’s black magic, right? Witchcraft?’
The flash in those extraordinary eyes was enough to make Nic feel unaccountably apologetic.
‘I don’t believe in witchcraft,’ Zanna said, her voice tight. ‘And calling any of this black magic is an insult to my aunt. Her family can trace its roots back to the sixteenth century. They travelled around and made their living by things like fortune-telling. Aunt Maggie has a very strong affinity with her heritage. I’ve grown up with it and I love Maggie enough to respect it. I see it as another dimension—one that adds some colour and imagination to life and can help people cope with the hard stuff.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Sorry...I get a bit defensive. We’ve had people try and twist things into something they’re not and then use it against her. Against us.’
Nic said nothing. He had a feeling he knew who those people might be. But they were out of the picture now. He was the one who got to decide how things would be handled from now on. Except that he had no idea. Yet. He stared at the cards.
‘I’ve always thought of it as a load of rubbish,’ he admitted. ‘The fortune-telling, that is.’
‘Depends on how you look at it.’ Zanna reached out and touched the pack of cards with her fingertips. ‘It’s about symbols. They demand an active response. You have to think about how you really feel and trying to relate to an unexpected symbol like the picture on a card can make you consider a totally new dimension to a problem. I like to think of them as a tool for self-knowledge. A way of centring oneself, perhaps.’
‘Seeing the future?’ He couldn’t help the note of derision but she didn’t seem to take offence.
‘I don’t believe the future can be seen...but I don’t believe things are necessarily fated to happen either. There are choices to be made that can radically alter the direction you take in life. Big choices. Little choices. So many that you don’t even notice a lot of them but it pays to be aware. Some people think they have no control and they blame others when things go wrong. If you’ve made an active choice and things go wrong, you can learn from that experience and it’s less likely to happen again.’
Like falling in love with the wrong person...
Inviting a complete stranger into your home...
‘If you don’t believe the future can be seen, how can you tell a fortune and say something’s going to happen? Like a new job or overseas travel or...’ he snorted softly ‘...meeting a tall, dark, handsome stranger?’
Was that a reference to himself? Was he flirting with her? Zanna knew the rush of heat would be showing in her cheeks. Did he know how good looking he was? Probably. Nobody could be out there looking like that in a world full of women and not find it incredibly easy to get whatever he wanted. Maybe toying was a better word, then. It made her remember the way he’d been looking at her when he’d been playing with that crystal in the shop. It made her remember the way he’d made her feel. That reawakening of desire.
How far could that go?
How far did she want it to go?
‘Okay...’ She avoided meeting his eyes. ‘First off, I’d probably say that there was an opportunity of a new job or travel or something. You might not have been thinking about it but the idea would be planted and you’d be more open to new ideas because of that suggestion. You might recognise an opportunity and then you’d have a choice. Something would change. You’d either take that opportunity or be more content to stay where you were.’
‘Do you tell your own fortune?’
She smiled. ‘Occasionally. If I have a problem I want to think through. I prefer to have Aunt Maggie read my cards, though. It’s great fun and the best way I know to have a really meaningful conversation. That’s how this whole business started. Way back, before my time here, but I’ve had plenty of people tell me about it. They came to have their cards read and Maggie became a magnet for anyone with a problem. And she’s such a warm and loving person she would offer them tea and cakes at the same time and it all just grew into a way she could make her living.’
She took a sip of her wine and Nic couldn’t look away. He watched her bottom lip touch the glass and the way her throat rippled as she swallowed. He picked up his own glass to find it contained a surprisingly good red wine.
‘Back then,’ Zanna continued, ‘before the city centre spread and the houses gave way to office blocks and hotels, there were streets and streets of cottages. Houses that had big gardens with lots of fruit trees. People kept chickens. Mr Briggs down the road even kept a goat. So many people. This was the big house but everyone was welcome. They all adored Maggie and this place was like a community centre. I remember it being like that when I was young.’
‘But the houses have gone. There’s no community now.’ Okay, it was sad but things changed. Progress happened.
‘Some of the people still come back and talk about the old days. They can’t believe that the house and Maggie are just the same as ever and they love sharing the memories. She always promises she’ll still be here the next time they come.’
She wasn’t here now. If she was, Nic might have been tempted to ask to have his cards read so that he could see if she was as amazing as Zanna made her sound. Had she really helped solve problems for so many people?
‘Can you read the cards?’
Her eyes widened. Surprise or shock? ‘I’ve grown up with them...yes... I’m not as good as Maggie but I can certainly read them.’
‘Would you read them for me?’
The hesitation was obvious. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’
So that they could have a really meaningful conversation? So that he could sit here a while longer and put off thinking about why he was really here? Maybe even find a solution to his own problem?
Nic held her gaze. Long enough for a silent message that had nothing to do with fortune-telling. He wanted more than his cards read and that want was getting stronger by the minute.
‘Yeah...’ His voice was husky. ‘I’m sure.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_01119fca-bcf5-5513-96d7-c0aaeae2d39e)
HE HAD NO IDEA, did he, how much could be revealed in a reading? He was drinking his wine, leaning back in his chair and watching curiously as Zanna went through the ritual of lighting the five fat candles on the arms of the candelabra and opening a drawer to extract a tiny bottle of lavender oil that she sprinkled on the black velvet square.
‘To cleanse the space,’ she explained.
‘Right...’ The corner of his mouth quirked but his gaze had enough heat that she could only handle the briefest contact.
Was it what she was doing that had captured his attention so intently or was he watching her? Adding the impression to wondering what she was about to find out about him made her feel oddly nervous. She needed another mouthful of her wine.
‘The first thing I need to do is pick a card to represent you as the significator.’
‘The what?’
‘Significator. The querent. The seeker of knowledge.’ This was good. She could hide her nerves by doing something she knew she was good at. She spread the cards, face up, in front of her. The sound Nic made was incredulous.
‘But they’re beautiful... They look like artwork reproductions.’
‘This set is based on one of the oldest known packs. Tarot cards have been around for five hundred years. The first known cards were painted in Italy during the Renaissance. Back around the second half of the fifteenth century.’
Was he impressed with her knowledge? Why did she want him to be? Zanna glanced up but Nic was staring at the cards. Many pictures depicted people and each card had a title.
‘I don’t like that one,’ he muttered. ‘I hope Death isn’t going to appear in my line up.’
‘The meaning isn’t necessarily literal. The death card means that something must come to an end. Whether or not it’s painful depends on the person’s capacity to accept and recognise the necessity for that ending.’ The words came easily because they’d been learned many years ago. ‘Sometimes you have to let go of an old life in order to take the opportunity of a new and more fulfilling one.’
‘That’s very true.’ Yes, he was impressed. ‘Something I’ve always lived by, in fact.’ There was a question in his eyes now. Or was it an accusation? ‘Do you?’
Zanna blinked. This wasn’t supposed to be about her. She retreated into card lore as she looked away. ‘The cards are designed to portray a story. Kind of the rites of passage of an archetypal journey through life. Everybody faces the same sorts of challenges and problems—the same as they did five hundred years ago. People don’t change and it’s often a surprise to find how similar we are to those around us. Every situation is different but the challenges can be the same.’
‘You don’t really believe you can predict the future, do you?’
This time, Zanna was able to hold his gaze. ‘I believe that particular choices and situations have led to where one is in life and the response to that position presents future choices and situations. Understanding why and how some things have happened is the best way to cast a more conscious influence on the future.’ She gave herself a mental shake. ‘Are you over forty years of age?’
That made him blink. ‘Do I look like I’m over forty?’
A bubble of laughter escaped. ‘You could be a well-preserved specimen. How old are you?’
‘Thirty six. How old are you?’
‘That’s not the least bit relevant. You’re the one I need to find a card for.’
‘Hey...I answered your question.’ There was an unguarded tone in his voice. A peep at a small boy having a playground conversation perhaps. It gave her a soft buzz of something warm.
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ she relented. ‘Oh, yes...This is definitely you.’ She picked up the card. ‘The King of Pentacles.’
‘Why?’
‘He represents a strong, successful individual with a gift of manifesting creative ideas in the world. He also represents status and worldly achievement and has the Midas touch.’
He looked taken aback. Did he think that wearing well-worn leather and jeans would disguise his obvious lack of any serious financial hardship? That jacket had been expertly tailored to fit so well and the nails on the ends of those artistic fingers were beautifully manicured. His casual appreciation of the special wine she had chosen had been another giveaway. She placed the chosen card on the centre of the black cloth. Then she scooped up the rest of the pack and began shuffling the cards.
‘That’s a lot of cards.’
‘Seventy-eight.’ Zanna nodded. ‘The major Arcana that is the depiction of the journey and then the minor Arcana. Four suits of Cups, Wands, Swords and Pentacles. They represent elements and experiences.’ She spread the cards in a fan shape in front of Nic, facing down this time. ‘Formulate your question or think about a problem you want clarified,’ she invited. ‘You don’t have to tell me what it is. Then choose ten cards and hand them to me in the order selected.’
She placed the cards in set positions in the form of a Celtic cross. ‘This card over yours is the first one we look at. It’s the covering card. Where you are at the moment and the influences affecting you.’ She turned it over. ‘Hmm...interesting.’
He was sitting very still. He might think this was a load of rubbish but he was unable to stop himself buying into it.
‘Why?’
‘Page of Wands. It suggests that it’s time to discover a new potential. Also suggests restlessness at work. Something’s not going the way you want it to.’ She touched the card at right angles to the one she’d just read. ‘This is the crossing card. It describes what is generating conflict and obstruction at the moment.’ She turned the card face up.
The oath Nic muttered was in French but needed no translation.
‘You’re taking the pictures too literally,’ she told him. ‘The Hanged Man is a symbol. It suggests that a sacrifice of some sort might be needed. Maybe there’s something that would be difficult to give up but it needs to go because it’s blocking progress.’
He was giving her that odd look again. As though he was including her in whatever thought processes were going on.
‘This is the crowning card,’ she continued. ‘It represents an aim or ideal that is not yet actual.’
‘The future?’
‘Potentially.’
‘What’s the Queen of Wands?’
Should she tell Nic that the Queen of Wands was the card that had always been picked as the significator for her own readings?
‘She’s industrious, versatile, strong-willed and talented.’ Zanna kept her eyes firmly on the card. ‘She’s also self-contained and stable. She holds her great strength and energy within, devoting them to the few things to which she chooses to give her heart.’
The moment’s silence was enough to make her realise that she didn’t need to tell Nic about her own relationship to this particular card. He was joining the dots all by himself.
‘It may not mean a person, as such,’ she added. ‘It could mean that it’s time to start developing her qualities yourself. Things like warmth and loyalty and being able to sustain a creative vision.’
He wasn’t buying that. He’d made his mind up, hadn’t he, and she could sense his immovability when that happened.
The card depicting the immediate future suggested a dilemma to be faced with either choice leading to trouble and the card representing the kind of response that Nic could expect from others was one of her favourites—the Lovers.
Nic clearly approved of it, too. ‘Now, why didn’t that one show up for my immediate future?’ he murmured. ‘That would have been something to look forward to.’
The tone of his voice held a seductive note that rippled through every cell in Zanna’s body like a powerful drug. She hadn’t felt this alive for so long.
Maybe she never had.
Had this man come into her life to teach her to feel things she didn’t know she was capable of feeling?
What would she do if he touched her with the kind of intent that tone promised?
Could she resist? Would she even try?
Maybe not. Zanna did her best to quell the curl of sensation deep in her belly. The anticipation. ‘You’re being too literal again. This card is the view of others. It could be that you’re doing something to make them think as they do.’
She could sense his discomfort and it was disturbing.
He may not be who he seems to be. Take care...
She knew he might be dangerous. It was reckless to be taking pleasure from his company. From this anticipation of what might be going to happen, but maybe that was what was making this such a thrill. Adding something wild and even more exciting to this chemical attraction.
It was an effort to keep her voice even. ‘This particular card might mean that you have to make a choice and it probably concerns love. It might be choosing between love and a career or creative activity. Or it could be that you’re involved in a triangle of some sort. Or that someone’s trying to get you to marry in a hurry.’
He was shaking his head now. ‘I never have to choose between love and my career. I’ve never even thought about marriage and I avoid triangles at all costs.’
He walked alone, then? He was unattached?
The thought should have made him seem more attractive but something didn’t feel right.
Zanna read a few more of the cards before she realised what was nagging at the back of her mind. It was too much of a coincidence that she felt so involved with every interpretation he was making. For whatever reason, Nic had included her in the question or problem he had brought to this reading.
Why?
‘This card represents your hopes and fears.’
‘The Fool? Who isn’t afraid of making a fool of themselves?’
‘The fear might apply to the fact that a risk of some kind is required. It suggests that a new chapter of your life might be about to begin but it needs a willingness to take a leap into the unknown. It fits with a lot of other cards here.’
‘What’s the last one?’
‘That position is the final outcome. It should give you some clues to answer the question you brought into the reading.’ Her own heart picked up speed as she turned it over. ‘Oh...’
The tension was palpable. Nic didn’t have to say anything to demand an explanation.
‘The Ace of Swords means a new beginning,’ she told him quietly. ‘But one that comes out of a struggle or conflict.’
He drained his glass of wine. It was all rubbish. So why did it feel so personal? It was obvious that Zanna was part of his immediate future. That it was going to be a struggle to get what he wanted. But did she really need to be sacrificed?
The thought was disturbing. She was part of this place and it felt like a home. A kind of portal to those memories buried so far back in his own story. Nic looked away from the table, his gaze downcast. It was the first time he’d noticed the floor of this space. A background of grey tiling that resembled flagstones had been inset with mosaic details. Starburst designs made up of tiny fragments of colour that dotted the floor at pleasingly irregular intervals.
‘It’s not original, is it?’ he queried. ‘The floor?’
‘Depends what you mean by original.’ Zanna was refilling his glass. ‘The old floorboards became unsafe because they were rotten. Maggie and I have always considered our creative efforts pretty original, though.’
‘You made this floor?’
‘Yes.’ She topped up her own glass. ‘Took ages but we loved doing it. In fact, we loved it so much we did flagstones for the garden, too. And a birdbath.’
Nic shook his head. Extraordinary.
‘Maybe it’s something to do with gypsy blood. Making do with what you find lying around. We dug up so much old broken china around here that it seemed a shame not to do something with it so we broke it up a bit more and used it for mosaic work.’
‘Taking an opportunity, huh? Dealing with a problem.’
‘Yes.’ She was smiling at him as if he’d understood something she’d been trying to teach. The sense of approval made him feel absurdly pleased with himself.
‘So you really do come from a gypsy bloodline?’
‘Absolutely. It’s only a few generations ago that my family on my father’s side was travelling. Maggie was my dad’s older sister. My great-grandfather was born in a caravan.’
‘Where does the name Zelensky come from?’
‘Eastern Europe. Probably Romania. That’s where my aunt Maggie’s gone now. She was desperate to find out more about her family before she’s too old to travel.’
The smile curled far enough to create a dimple. ‘What’s funny?’ Nic asked.
‘Just that Maggie’s got more energy and enthusiasm than most people half her age have. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever known and I never fail to feel enormously grateful that she was there to rescue me when I got orphaned.’
Suddenly Nic wanted to change the subject but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded that she was vulnerable. That she’d been a frightened child. That this place was her home. Her refuge. Because it would give her an advantage in the conflict he knew was coming?
That was weird in itself. Nic didn’t let emotions sway business decisions.
This was hardly a business decision, though, was it? It couldn’t be more different from the luxury resorts he’d become known for designing and developing in recent years. And the impulsive decision to buy into Rata Avenue had unleashed so many personal memories. This had nothing to do with business, in fact. This was deeply personal. A step back in time to where he’d spent the most vulnerable years of his own life.
Was that why this house felt so much like home?
He cast another glance around the kitchen. No, this was nothing like the fragments of memory he still had. The kitchen in the cottage had been tiny and dark and it had taken a huge effort from Maman to keep it sparkling clean. There was something about this space that tugged hard at those memories, however. Some of those old utensils, perhaps—like the metal sieve that had holes in the shape of flowers? He dropped his gaze to the floor. To the fragments of the old china embedded in the tiles.
Blue and white were prominent but many had small flowers on them. Like that one, with a dusty pink rose. He almost didn’t recognise his own voice when he spoke.
‘Where did you say you got all the china?’
‘We dug it up. Some of it was in our own garden but most came from next door where the park is now. There was a cottage there that was even older than this place. The council acquired the land and demolished the cottage before I came here but it was a long time before the site was cleaned up so it was like a playground for me. I knew I wasn’t allowed to go too close to the river but once I started finding the pretty pieces of broken china, I didn’t want to. It was like a treasure hunt I could keep going back to. I think that was where my love of flowers came from.’
But Nic wasn’t listening to her words. He wasn’t even thinking of how musical that lilt in her voice was. He was thinking of a china cup that had pink rosebuds on it and a gold handle. He could see his mother’s hands cradling it—the way she had when she’d become lost in her sadness. He could see the look in her eyes above the gold rim of the cup that matched the handle. He could feel the sensation of being so lost. Not knowing what to do to make her smile again. To bring back the laughter and the music.
‘When I’m big, Mama, I’ll be rich. I’ll buy that big house next door for you.’
How could grief be so sharp when it had been totally buried for so many years?
Maybe it wasn’t Zanna’s vulnerability he needed to worry about at all. It was his own.
The pain was timely. He was here for a reason—to honour his parents—and he couldn’t let anyone else dilute that resolution. No matter how beautiful they were.
‘I should go.’ He glanced at his watch. How on earth had so much time passed? ‘It’s getting late.’
‘But didn’t you want to see the house?’ There was a faint note of alarm in Zanna’s voice. ‘There’s still time before it gets dark.’
‘Another time perhaps.’ Except the words didn’t quite leave his mouth because Nic made the mistake of looking up again.
The sun was much lower now and the light in the room had changed, becoming softer and warmer. Shards of colour caught in his peripheral vision as the light came through stained-glass panels and bounced off cut crystals that were hanging on silver wires.
It made that amazing colour of Zanna’s hair even more like flames. Glowing and so alive—like her eyes and skin, and that intriguing personality.
There was no point in seeing the rest of the house but he didn’t want to leave just yet. He might not get another time with her like this. Before she knew who he was or what he wanted. And being with her—here—might be the only way to get more of those poignant glimpses into his own past. As painful as they were, they were also treasure. Forgotten jewels.
Was it wrong to want more?
Quite possibly, but—heaven help him—he couldn’t resist.
‘Sure,’ he heard himself saying instead. ‘Why not?’
* * *
Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to give Nic a tour of the house.
It might have been better to let him wander around by himself. But how could she have known that he would pick out the features she loved most herself? That the feeling of connection would gain power with every passing room?
He commented on the graceful proportions of the huge downstairs rooms, the ornately carved fireplaces and the beautiful lead-light work of the stained-glass fanlights. He knew more than she did about old houses, too.
‘Those ceiling roses were more than a decorative feature.’ With his head tilted back to inspect the central light surround, the skin on his neck looked soft and vulnerable. Zanna could imagine all too easily how soft it would feel to her fingers. Or her lips...
‘They’re actually ventilators. Those gaps in the plasterwork were designed to let out hot air.’
‘Useful.’ Her murmur earned her a glance accentuated by a quirked eyebrow. Could he feel the heat coming from her body?
No. It definitely hadn’t been such a good idea to do this. Zanna froze for a moment at the bottom of the staircase. The rooms on the next level were far more personal. What would he say when he saw more of her handiwork? Could it take away that sweet pleasure that his reaction to the sunflower painting had given her?
He hadn’t stopped moving when she did so his body came within a hair’s breadth of bumping into hers. Her forward movement was an instinctive defence against such a powerful force and there was only one way to go.
Up the stairs.
Maggie’s room was safe enough. So were the spare bedrooms but the bathroom was next and she stood back to let Nic enter the room alone. Folding her arms around her body was an unconscious movement that was both a comfort and a defence.
* * *
So far, the features of this house had been expected. Period features that were valuable in their own right. Things that could be salvaged and recycled so they wouldn’t be lost and he wouldn’t need to feel guilty about their destruction.
But this...
Nic was speechless.
The fittings were in keeping with the house. The claw-foot bath, the pedestal hand basin and the ceramic toilet bowl and cistern with its chain flush, but everything had been painted with trails of ivy. The tiny leaves on the painted vines crept over the white tiled walls from the arched window, making it appear as though the growth had come naturally from outside the house. The floor was also tiled in white but there were small diamond-shaped insets in the same shade of green as the ivy. The interior of the antique bathtub was also painted the same dark green.
‘C’est si spécial...’
Reverting to the language of his heart only happened when something touched him deeply but he didn’t translate the phrase as he walked back past Zanna. She didn’t move so he kept going towards the last door that opened off this hallway.
Directly over the shop, this room shared the feature of a large bay window but here it had been inset with a window seat that followed the semi-circular line. A brass bed, probably as old as the house, had a central position and the colours in the patchwork quilt echoed those of the tiles in the nearby fireplace.
The walls were lined with tongue-and-groove timber that had been painted the palest shade of green. Dotted at random intervals, but no more than a few centimetres apart, were reproductions of flowerheads. Every imaginable flower could be found somewhere on these wooden walls. From large roses and lilies to pansies and daisies—right down to the tiniest forget-me-nots.
‘The hours this must have taken...’ Nic murmured aloud. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’
‘It was good practice.’
Startled, Nic turned to find he wasn’t alone in the room any longer. That feeling he’d had earlier of being potentially out of his depth had nothing on the way the ground had just shifted beneath him.
‘You painted these?’
The shrug was almost imperceptible but the modesty was appealing. ‘Maggie gave me an encyclopaedia of flowers for my twelfth birthday. I added one almost every day for years.’
‘And the ivy in the bathroom?’
‘That was a wet May school holiday.’ Another tiny shrug came with the hint of a smile. ‘Maggie said it would keep me out of mischief.’
He stared at her. ‘Do you know how extraordinary you are, Zanna Zelensky? How talented?’
She simply stared back at him. As though he’d said something wrong and she was trying to decide what to do about it. The moment stretched but Nic couldn’t break the silence. The air hummed with a curious tension but he had no clue as to what might have caused it.
Finally, she spoke.
‘There’s one room you haven’t seen yet.’
His nod was solemn. His mouth felt dry and he had to lick his lips.
The turret. The one room he’d wanted to see inside for as long as he could remember. The child buried deep inside was about to have his dearest wish granted. But...what if it was a disappointment? If it was nothing more than, say, a storage area?
He forced his feet to start moving. To follow Zanna up the narrow, spiral staircase that led to the secret room beneath the witch’s hat of the turret. If it was less than he hoped for, he’d cope. He had with every other childish hope and dream that had been crushed, hadn’t he?
Opening the small door at the top of the stairs, Zanna walked ahead of him. She said nothing. She didn’t even turn around as she walked over to one of the arched windows and stared out as if she was giving Nic some privacy.
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Alison Roberts
This was too important to risk playing games with. Honesty couldn’t hurt, surely?
Disarming … charming this man, even … might get him on side. Her side.
“The historical protection order,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting someone to come and want to see the house.”
“Ah …”
He was holding her gaze, and for a heartbeat Zanna had the impression he was about to tell her something of great significance. But then his gaze shifted and she could sense him changing his mind.
He nodded, as though confirming his decision. “Yes,” he said, slowly. ‘I would like to see the house.’
Should she show him? How dangerous would it be to be alone with this man? But what if he did hold the key to saving this place? How good would it be to have its safety assured by the time Maggie got home? She owed her beloved aunt so much, and a protection order would be a gift beyond price.
For both of them.
Zanna took a deep, steadying breath. And then she mirrored his nod. ‘I’ll have to lock up,’ she told him. Moving to collect the key from behind the counter took her even closer to him, and she felt that odd curl of sensation deep within again. Stronger this time. That heady mix of desire laced with … danger.
She was playing with fire.
But, oh … the heat was delicious.
In Her Rival’s Arms
Alison Roberts
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ALISON ROBERTS lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, and has written over sixty Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™ novels.
As a qualified paramedic she has personal experience of the drama and emotion to be found in the world of medical professionals, and loves to weave stories with this rich background—especially when they can have a happy ending.
When Alison is not writing you’ll find her indulging her passion for dancing or spending time with her friends (including Molly the dog) and her daughter Becky, who has grown up to become a brilliant artist. She also loves to travel, hates housework, and considers it a triumph when the flowers outnumber the weeds in her garden.
For the Maytoners, with love, in recognition of the magic you have all brought into my life. xxx
Contents
Cover (#uf807199b-6f5f-5fd6-9732-5b92b5419a4e)
Introduction (#u83dd529f-e0e7-5028-b8b3-5d3974856b42)
Title Page (#u4ba0be3e-f8fa-5e1a-8ac9-224e9b972387)
About the Author (#u8ec7a192-9d71-5e8c-9826-17a7c48a8820)
Dedication (#u1203dc2f-b0b4-5b20-b4e2-24d794d2188d)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_85d2fd61-e05d-577a-ae79-8b154491f1bb)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_7d433f13-4e12-55cd-8e45-684283e52793)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_45ee208a-1248-5fef-af41-33551ebb70f7)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_46c61524-5d8e-5ac6-8a57-6a7c40d90b45)
NO WAY WAS he a genuine customer.
Suzanna Zelensky had no need to call on any intuitive powers she might have inherited from her bloodline. Even the dark silhouette of this stranger, caused by the slant of late afternoon sunshine through the window behind him as he stepped further into her domain, radiated a palpable scepticism. He wanted nothing to do with anything this business represented. The impression wasn’t all that uncommon in the gypsy shop Spellbound and it was almost always emanated by males, but they were invariably dragged in a by a female partner.
This man was alone and yet he moved with a determination that suggested he had a good reason for entering her world. Alarm bells rang with enough force to make the back of Zanna’s neck prickle. Who was he and what did he want?
She had seen him well before he’d had the chance to see her. Had caught a clear glimpse of his face in that heartbeat of time from when he’d come through the door until he’d stepped forward into that shaft of light. Strong features with a shadowing to his jaw that accentuated uncompromising lines. A harsh but compelling face. This man wouldn’t just stand out from a crowd. He would render those around him virtually invisible. He was different. Beautiful...
Having other customers to attend to was fortunate. Zanna had time to think. A chance to consider the implications of this unusual visit and an opportunity to gather her emotional resources. She turned back to the teenage girls.
‘You’ll need a burner to use the essential oils as aromatherapy. We have a good range over here.’ The heavy silver bangles Zanna was wearing gave the movement of her arm a distinctive, musical accompaniment.
She could feel him looking at her now. A predatory kind of appraisal that should have raised any hackles she possessed but instead, disturbingly, she could feel a very different kind of response. Her skin prickled as though every cell was being stirred. Coming alive.
‘How do they work?’ One of the girls was reaching for a burner.
‘A small candle goes in the base.’ Zanna risked a quick glance behind her, maybe because she had sensed she was no longer under scrutiny. Sure enough, the man was moving, staring at the objects on display. For a moment, Zanna stared blankly at the object in front of her. What had she been talking about?
‘You put water in the bowl above it,’ she managed, ‘and sprinkle a few drops of your chosen oil on the water. As it heats, the scent is carried in the vapour.’
‘What do these ones do?’ A dark-haired girl picked up a tiny bottle.
‘Those ones are designed to complement zodiac signs. They increase your personal powers.’
He was watching her again. Listening? Quite likely, given the increase in the strength of scepticism she could sense. Scathing enough to bring a rising flush of heat to her neck. Zanna had always loathed the fact that she blushed so easily and she particularly didn’t appreciate it right now.
‘I’m Sagittarius,’ the blonde girl announced. ‘Can I open the bottle and see what it smells like?’
‘Sure.’ Zanna moved away as the girls tested the oils. Despite being acutely aware of the movements of the stranger within the shop since he’d entered, she had made no direct acknowledgment of his presence. As far as he was concerned, he had been totally ignored, which was not a practice she would normally have employed with any potential customer. They couldn’t afford to turn away business.
But this man wasn’t a customer. The dismissive rake of his glance across shelves of ornate candle holders and chalices, stands of incense and display cases of Celtic jewellery, even before the flick of a finger against a hanging crystal prism that sent rainbow shards of light spinning across the ceiling, had confirmed that his mission did not include any desire to make a purchase.
He didn’t look like someone who might have been drawn in for the refreshments available either. She could imagine him ordering a double-shot espresso to go, not lingering over herbal teas and organic cakes and cookies. Had he even noticed the blackboard menu as he’d raised his gaze? Had he been caught by the play of light on the ceiling from the prism or was he inspecting the intricate pattern of stained glass in the fanlights above the main windows?
He was moving away from her now, towards the selection of crystal stones in a basket near the window. He was tall. She knew he was over six feet in height because the circular feather and twine dreamcatchers suspended from the ceiling brushed the top of his head as he walked beneath them. His hair was black and sleek, the waves neatly groomed, with just enough length to curl over the collar of a well-worn black leather jacket. His jeans fitted like a glove and the footwear was interesting. Not shoes—boots of some kind. Casual clothing but worn in a way that gave it the aura of a uniform. Of being in command. A motorbike helmet was tucked under one arm.
Zanna could almost taste the testosterone in the air and it made her draw in a quick breath and take a mental step sideways.
Maybe those alarm bells had been ringing for a more intimate purpose. Perhaps her intuition had been overwhelmed by the raw sexual energy this man possessed. A subtle but determined shake of her head sent a lock of waist-length copper-coloured hair over one shoulder. She brushed the errant tress back calmly as she moved towards the stranger.
‘Can I be of any assistance?’
Dominic Brabant almost dropped the stone he was weighing in a careless hand. He’d only seen the profile and then the back view of this woman when he’d entered the shop because she’d been busy with her customers. He’d had a good look at that back, mind you, while wrestling with the annoyance that two silly schoolgirls presented such an effective barrier to having a private conversation.
He could wait. He’d learned long ago that patience could be well rewarded.
Maybe he would go to one of the small wooden tables, screened by bookshelves, and order one of the teas described on the blackboard menu.
A ginger tea for its energising properties, perhaps?
No. He had more than enough energy. The motivation for being here in the first place had been validated in those few minutes he’d had to take, standing out there in the street, untangling the overload of memories and emotions. He could feel it fizzing in his veins and gaining strength with every passing minute. It had to happen. Fate had provided the opportunity and it felt like the inspiration had always been there, just waiting to be unleashed. The desire to succeed was more powerful than any that had preceded his achievements so far in life.
This was personal. Deeply personal.
He blew out a breath. Maybe a soothing chamomile tea might be the way to go. He couldn’t afford to make this any more difficult than it had to be. And he wasn’t even sure that this was the woman he needed to speak to. She might simply be a shop assistant who was paid to wear that ridiculous dark purple robe and improbable hair that had to be a wig. Nobody had real hair that could ripple down their back like newborn flames.
It was just part of the image. Like the flowing clothes and heavy silver bangles. The assumption that she was probably large and shapeless under that flowing fabric and that the hair under the wig was steely grey was blown away somewhat disconcertingly by the sound of her voice at close quarters.
The witch—if that was who she was, according to the information he’d been provided with—was young and the lilt in those few words created a ripple that was reminiscent of the silky fall of that wig.
He cleared his throat as he turned to meet her gaze. ‘I’m just looking at the moment, thanks.’
A flash in her eyes let him know that she recognised the ambiguity as he continued to look at her rather than what was for sale in the shop.
The sustained eye contact was unintentional. This wasn’t the time to intimidate anyone—especially someone whose co-operation might be essential—but the proximity of the window gave this corner of the shop much more light than the rest of the candlelit interior. Enough light to see the copper-coloured rims around those dark, hazel eyes and the dusting of freckles on pale skin. And the hair was real. Or was it? Nic had to suppress an outrageous desire to reach out and touch the tendril caught on the wide sleeve of the robe. Just to check.
‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ Zanna held the eye contact with difficulty. The hint of a foreign accent in the stranger’s deep voice was only faint but it was as intriguing, not to mention as sexy, as her earlier observations. The feeling of connection was more than a little disturbing. How could such an intensity be present so instantaneously?
And, yes...he was looking for something in particular.
Something he had promised when he’d been only six years old.
‘When I’m big, Mama, I’ll be rich. I’ll buy that big house next door for you.’
Disturbingly, he could almost hear an echo of his mother’s quiet laugh. Feel her arms holding him. The sadness that would always give her voice that extra note.
‘Merci beaucoup, mon chéri. Ce sera merveilleux!’
‘No.’ The word came out more forcefully than he’d intended. He summoned at least the beginning of a smile. ‘Nothing in particular.’
His eyes were dark. Almost black in this light. Inscrutable and unnerving. Resisting the instinct to look away was almost unbearable. The strength of will this man possessed was a solid force but she couldn’t afford to lower her guard until she knew what his motives were in coming here.
He was bouncing the crystal in his palm. Zanna had the uncomfortable notion that it wasn’t just the rock he was playing with. He had a purpose in coming in here. He wanted something from her. He wanted...her?
The ridiculous notion came from nowhere. Or was she picking up a well-hidden signal?
Whatever. It was strong enough to make her toes curl. To send a jolt right through her body, sparking and fizzing until it melted into a glow she could feel deep in her belly.
Desire? Surely not. That was a sensation she thought she might have lost for ever in the wake of the London fiasco with Simon. But what if it was? What if something she’d feared had died had just sprung to life again? She couldn’t deny that the possibility was exhilarating.
It was also inappropriate. She knew nothing about this man and he could well represent a threat, both to herself and the only other person on the planet she had reason to cherish. Knowing she had to stay in control in the face of the power this stranger had the potential to wield over her physically was going to be a challenge.
And that was just as exhilarating as knowing she was still capable of experiencing desire. These last weeks, alone in both the shop and the house, had been lonely. Stifling, even.
The challenge was irresistible.
‘You’re holding a carnelian crystal.’ She was pleased to find she could keep her tone pleasantly professional. If she gave him something concrete to dismiss maybe he would reveal his true motive for being there. ‘It’s considered to be a highly evolved mineral healer that can aid tissue regeneration. It enhances attunement with the inner self and facilitates concentration.’ She smiled politely. ‘It opens the heart.’
‘Really?’ He couldn’t help his sceptical tone. His own concentration had just been shot to pieces and he was still holding the stone.
Did some people really believe in magic?
Like they believed in love?
He released it to let it tumble back with its companions in the small wicker basket. He wasn’t one of them.
‘Excuse me.’ The teenage girls had given up on the essential oils. ‘What’s in all those big jars?’
‘They’re herbs.’
It was hard to turn away from the man and that was a warning Zanna needed to listen to. A few moments to collect herself was a blessing but the task was made more difficult because the girls were staring at the man behind her now, their eyes wide enough to confirm her own impression of how different he was.
‘Common ones like rosemary and basil,’ she added, to distract them. ‘And lots of unusual ones, like patchouli and mistletoe and quassia.’
Zanna never tired of looking at her aunt’s collection of antique glass containers. They took pride of place on wide, dark shelves behind the counter, the eccentric shapes and ornate stoppers adding to the mysterious promise of the jars’ contents. They had always been there. Part of her life ever since she’d arrived as a frightened young girl who had just lost both her parents. As grounding as being here, in the home she loved.
‘They can be burned for aromatherapy or drunk as teas. They can also be used for spells.’
‘Spells.’ The girls nudged each other and giggled. ‘That’s what you need, Jen. A love spell.’ They both sneaked another peek behind Zanna and Jen tossed her hair.
‘Have a look at the book display,’ Zanna suggested, unhappily aware that her tone was cool. ‘There’s some good spells in that small, blue book.’
‘You have got to be kidding.’
The deep voice, unexpectedly close to her shoulder, startled Zanna and made her aware of another jolt of that delicious sensation. Cells that had already come alive caught alight. She could actually imagine tiny flames flickering over every inch of her skin.
‘Got some eye of newt in one of those jars?’
Here it was. The first open evidence that this man was not a genuine customer. Zanna turned, her smile tight. ‘No. We find that currants are a perfectly acceptable substitution these days.’
The giggles suggested the girls were oblivious to the tension that Zanna could feel steadily increasing. She cast a quick glance at the grandfather clock near the inner door of the shop. Only another ten minutes or so and she could close up and stop wasting her time with customers who either had no intention of buying anything or schoolgirls who couldn’t afford to. At least the girls were enjoying themselves. The stranger wasn’t. She could sense his irritation with the girls. Why? Was he waiting for them to leave? So he could be alone with her?
The flames flickered again but it was beyond the realms of possibility that the strength of the physical connection she could feel was being reciprocated. He wanted her for something, though... Of course...why hadn’t she thought of that the moment she’d seen him come in, looking as though he had ownership of whatever—and whoever—was around him? As if he had the power to snap his fingers and change her world? To give her exactly what she wanted most.
Or to take it away.
Zanna stilled for a moment. Could he have come from the offices of the city council? They were as keen as the owner of the dilapidated apartment block next door that this property be sold and both the buildings destroyed in order to make a fresh development possible. There’d been veiled threats of the council having the power to force such a sale.
There was no sound of movement behind her either. Just a deep silence that somehow confirmed her suspicion and made her apprehensive.
Maybe the girls picked up on that. Or perhaps they’d seen Zanna look at the clock.
‘Have you seen the time?’ one of them gasped. ‘We’re going to be in so much trouble!’
They raced from the shop so fast the door banged and swung open again. Zanna moved to close it automatically and, without really thinking of why she might be doing it, she turned the sign on the door around to read ‘Closed’.
She turned then. Slowly. Feeling like she was turning to face her fate.
And there he was. Relaxed enough to have one hip propped against the counter but watching her with a stillness about him that suggested intense concentration. Zanna felt a prickle of that energy reach her skin and she paused, mirroring his focus.
Something was about to happen.
And it was important.
His smile seemed relaxed, however. Wry, in fact, in combination with that raised eyebrow.
‘You don’t really believe in any of this stuff, do you?’
‘What stuff in particular?’ Zanna’s heart picked up speed. If he was admitting his own lack of interest, maybe he was going to tell her why he was really here. ‘There’s rather a lot to choose from. Like aromatherapy, numerology, crystals, runes and palmistry. And the Tarot, of course.’ Mischief made her lips curl. ‘I would be happy to read your cards for you.’
He ignored the invitation. ‘All of it.’ His hand made a sweeping gesture. ‘Magic.’
‘Of course I believe in magic. I’m sure you do as well.’
The huff of sound was dismissive. ‘Pas dans un million d’années.’
The words were spoken softly enough that Zanna knew she had not been intended to hear them but the language was instantly recognisable. He was French, then. That explained the attractive accent and possibly that aura of control, too. She might not have understood the words but the tone was equally recognisable. Insulting, even. Why was he here—when he felt like this?
She’d had enough of this tension. Of not knowing.
‘Are you from the council?’
As soon as the words left her mouth Zanna realised how absurd they were. It wasn’t just because he was French that he had that quality of being in charge. A confidence so bone deep it could be cloaked in lazy charm. This man didn’t work for anyone but himself. To suggest he might be a cog in a large, bureaucratic organisation was as much of an insult as dismissing everything that science was unable to prove. No wonder she could sense him gathering himself defensively.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’ve come about the house?’
His hesitation spoke volumes. So did his eyes. Even if she had been close enough, those eyes were so dark already she might not have picked up the movement of his pupils but he couldn’t disguise the involuntary flicker.
She’d hit the nail on the head and, for some reason, he was reluctant to admit it. Another possibility occurred to Zanna. He could be a specialist consultant of some kind and perhaps this was supposed to be an undercover inspection, in which case she might have been well advised to simply play along with the advantage of her suspicions. But this was too important to risk playing games. Honesty couldn’t hurt, surely?
Disarming...charming this man, even, might get him on side. Her side.
‘The historical protection order,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting someone to come and want to see the house.’
‘Ah...’ He was holding her gaze and, for a heartbeat, Zanna had the impression he was about to tell her something of great significance. But then his gaze shifted and she could sense him changing his mind. He nodded, as though confirming his decision. ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly. ‘I would like to see the house.’
Should she show him? How dangerous would it be to be alone with this man? But what if he did hold the key to saving this place? How good would it be to have its safety assured by the time Maggie got home? She owed her beloved aunt so much and a protection order would be a gift beyond price.
For both of them.
Zanna took a deep, steadying breath. And then she mirrored his nod. ‘I’ll have to lock up,’ she told him. Moving to collect the key from behind the counter took her even closer to him and she felt that odd curl of sensation deep within again. Stronger this time. That heady mix of desire laced with...danger.
She was playing with fire.
But, oh...the heat was delicious.
‘I’m Zanna,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Zanna Zelenksy.’
‘Dominic Brabant.’ It was only good manners to extend his hand and his smile disguised the satisfaction of confirming that she was the person he’d been hoping to meet. ‘Nic.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Nic.’
* * *
The touch of her hand was as surprising as hearing her voice had been. That familiar frisson he noted would have been a warning in years gone by but Nic had learned to control it. To take the pleasure it could offer and escape before it became a prison.
Not that he’d expected to find it here. Any more than he’d expected this opportunity to appear. Fate was throwing more than one curveball in his direction at the moment. But how was he supposed to handle this one?
He watched as Zanna dipped her head, holding her hair out of the way, to blow out the numerous candles burning on the counter. With swift movements she divided and then braided the hair she held into a loose, thick rope that hung over her shoulder. Pulling a tasselled cord around her neck released the fastening of the purple robe. Skin-tight denim jeans appeared and then a bright orange cropped top that left a section of her belly exposed. There was a jewel dead centre. Copper coloured. It made him remember her extraordinary eyes. And as for her skin...
His gut tightened in a very pleasurable clench. The notion of her being a witch was too absurd. He was quite certain he would be unable to discover a single wart on that creamy skin.
Anywhere.
Mon Dieu... His body was telling him exactly how he would prefer to handle this and it didn’t dent his confidence. It was a given that he would win in the end because he had never entertained the acceptance of failure since he’d been old enough to direct his own life, and this new project was too significant to modify.
Could what was happening here work in his favour?
Be patient, he reminded himself. He needed to go with the flow and see what other surprises fate might have in store for him.
The ripple of anticipation suggested that the reward would be well worth waiting for.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_80a6f4d5-379f-5ab1-99e7-998c8257b472)
STONE GARGOYLES SAT on pedestals, guarding the steps that led to the shop’s entrance. While Zanna fitted an old iron key into the lock and turned it, Nic took another stride or two onto the mossy pathway beneath massive trees.
Having already admitted his interest, he didn’t have to stifle the urge to look up through the branches to get another look at the house. Zanna’s distraction was fortunate because it gave him a few moments to deal with a fresh wave of the turbulent emotions that memories evoked.
It had to be his earliest-ever memory, running down a brick pathway just like this, summoned by the creak of the iron gate that announced his father’s return home. Being caught in those big, work-roughened hands and flung skywards before being caught again. Terrifying but thrilling because it was a given that nothing bad could happen when Papa was there.
He could hear the faint echo of a small child’s shriek of laughter that blended with the deep, joyous rumble of the adult.
Piercing happiness.
Nothing bad had happened while Papa had been there. Life had been so full of laughter. Of music. The sounds of happiness that had died when Papa had been snatched away from them.
The memory slipped away, screened by filters the years had provided. And he could help them on their way by focusing on the house and using his professional filter—an extensive knowledge of architecture and considerable experience in demolishing old buildings.
It really was astonishing, with the unusual angles to its bays and verandas that gave it the impression of a blunted pentagon. It was iced with ornate ironwork, intricately moulded bargeboards and modillions and, to top it all off, there was a turret, set like a church spire to one side of the main entrance, adding a third storey to the two large rooms with rounded bay windows.
A secret, circular room that begged to be explored.
Especially to a small boy who had gazed at it from over the fence.
The shaft of remembered longing was as shiny as that moment of happiness had been. The filters were like clouds, shifting just enough to allow a bright beam to shine through. Bright enough to burn.
The emotion behind this current project would be overwhelming if he let it surface. Not that his mother was here to see it happen but that only made it more important. This was going to be a memorial to the one woman he’d ever truly loved. To the man she’d loved with all her heart. To the family he’d had for such a heartbreakingly short breath of time.
He swallowed hard.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Zanna had joined him on the path. ‘The most amazing house in the world.’
A leaf drifted down from one of the trees and landed on Nic’s shoulder. Zanna resisted the urge to reach up brush it off.
‘It’s certainly unusual. Over a hundred years old. Queen Anne style.’
Had she been right in guessing that he was a specialist in old houses? ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. ‘Are you an architect?’
‘Used to be. Plus, I’ve done a lot of study. The style was taken up in the 1880s and stayed popular for a long time. The Marseilles tiles on the roof make it a bit later because they weren’t introduced until about 1901.’
The brief eye contact as he glanced at her was enough to steal Zanna’s breath for a moment. The connection felt weird but gave her hope. He knew about old houses. Would he fall in love with her house and help her fight to save it?
‘I didn’t know about the Queen Anne style until recently,’ she confessed. ‘I had to do some research to apply for the historical protection order. It’s all about the fancy stuff, isn’t it? The turret and shingles and things.’
It didn’t matter if he didn’t admit that consideration for protection was the reason he was here. Zanna was asking the question partly because she wanted him to keep talking. She loved his voice. It reflected the dark, chocolate quality of his eyes. And that faint accent was undeniably sexy.
‘It was also known as free classical,’ he told her. ‘The turret is a bit of a signature. Like those dragon spikes on the roof ridges. It looks like it was designed by an architect with a strong love of fairy-tales.’
‘Or magic?’ Zanna suggested quietly.
He shook his head, dismissing the suggestion, but the huff of his breath was a softer sound than she might have expected. ‘Typical of New Zealand to adopt a style and make it popular only after it was considered passé by the rest of the world.’
‘So you’re not a kiwi, then?’
‘By birth I am. My mother was French. A musician. She came across a kiwi backpacker who’d gone to Paris to trace his own French ancestry. She found him sitting in a park, playing a guitar, and she said she fell in love with him the moment she heard his music.’
Why was he telling her this? Were memories coming at him so hard and fast they had to escape? No. Maybe it was because he’d had more time to process these ones. They’d been spinning and growing in his head and his heart for days. They’d inspired this whole project.
‘She came back here to marry him and I was born the same year. He...died when I was five and I got taken back to France a year or so later.’
Turning points. When life had gone so wrong. He couldn’t fix that, of course. But he could honour the time when it had been perfect. Not that he could share any of that with Zanna. Maybe he’d already said too much.
‘I still have a home there,’ he finished. ‘But I also live in London.’
Zanna’s eyes were wide. ‘I’ve lived here since I was six. My parents got killed in a car accident and my aunt Magda adopted me. I’ve only recently come back, though. I’ve been in London for the last few years.’
The point of connection brought them instantly that little bit closer and Nic was aware of a curl of warmth but then, oddly, it became an emotional seesaw and he felt disappointed. So they’d been living in the same city, oblivious to the existence of each other? What a waste...
Another leaf drifted down. And then another. Zanna looked up, frowning.
‘I’d better get some water onto these trees. It’s odd. I didn’t think the summer’s been dry enough to distress them.’
‘Maybe autumn’s arriving early.’
‘They’re not deciduous. They’re southern ratas. They don’t flower very well more than once every few years but when they do, they’re one of our most spectacular native trees. They have bright red, hairy sort of flowers—like the pohutukawa. The street was named after them. And the house. But they were here first and they’re protected now, which is a good thing.’
‘Why?’
‘The trees are big enough to make it harder to develop the land—if it’s ever sold.’
‘You’re thinking of selling?’ Maybe this mission would end up being easier than expected. Done and dusted within a few days, even. Strange that the prospect gave him another pang of...what was that? Like knowing that he’d lived in the same city as Zanna without knowing about it. Not quite disappointment...more like regret?
Yet he knew perfectly well that the world was full of beautiful women and he’d never had trouble attracting his fair share of them. What was it about Zanna Zelenksy? Her striking colouring? Those eyes? The strong character?
She certainly wasn’t feeling it. Her face stilled and he could see a flash of strong emotion darken her eyes.
‘Not in my lifetime. This is my home. My refuge.’
Refuge? What did she need to run and hide from? Was there a streak of vulnerability in that strength? Yes...maybe that was why his interest had been captured. But Zanna ignored his curious glance and began walking down the path.
‘It’s part of the city’s heritage, too,’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Only the council’s too stupid to recognise it. They’d rather see it pulled down and have some horrible, modern skyscraper take its place.’
It wouldn’t be a skyscraper.
It would be a beautiful, low building that echoed the curve of the river.
The Brabant Academy. A music school and performance centre, funded by the trust that would bring brilliant musicians together to nurture young talent. A serene setting but a place where dreams could be realised. A place of beautiful music. And hope for the future.
Nic followed her along the path. Heritage was often overrated, in his opinion. A smokescreen that could hide the truth that sometimes it was preferable to wipe out the past and put something new and beautiful in its place.
And this was one of those times. A final sweeping glance as he reached the steps leading to the main entrance of the house revealed the cracked weatherboards and faded shingles. Peeling paint and rust on the ironwork. Poverty and neglect were stamped into the fabric of this once grand residence and it struck deeply engrained notes in Nic’s soul.
A new memory of his father surfaced.
‘Why on earth would we want a grand old house that would take far too much money and time? We have everything we need right here, don’t we?’
The tiny cottage had contained everything they’d needed. It had been home.
The shock of moving to the slums of Paris had been all the more distressing. The smell of dirt and disease and...death.
Yes. The hatred of poverty and neglect was well honed. Memories of the misery were powerful enough to smother memories of happier things so it was no surprise that they were peeking out from the clouds for the first time ever. Maybe he would welcome them in time but they were too disturbing for now. They touched things Nic had been sure were long dead and buried. They had the potential to rekindle a dream that had been effectively crushed with his mother’s death—that one day he would again experience that feeling like no other.
The safety of home. Of family.
* * *
Zanna found she was holding her breath as she turned the brass knob and pushed open the solid kauri front door of her home.
First impressions mattered. Would he be blown away by the graceful curve of the wide staircase with its beautifully turned balustrade and the carved newel posts? Would he notice that the flower motif on the posts was repeated in the light switches and the brass plates around the doorknobs—even in the stained glass of the windows?
Maybe he’d be distracted by the clutter of Aunt Maggie’s eccentric collections, like the antique stringed instruments on the walls above the timber panelling and the arrays of unusual hats, umbrellas and walking sticks crowding more than one stand on the polished wooden floorboards.
He certainly seemed a little taken aback as he stepped into the entranceway but perhaps that was due to the black shape moving towards them at some speed from out of the darkness of the hallway beneath the stairs.
Three pitch-black cats with glowing yellow eyes. Siblings that stayed so close they could appear like one mythical creature sometimes. She could feel the way Nic relaxed as the shape came close enough to reveal its components.
‘Meet the M&Ms.’
‘Sorry?’
Zanna scooped up one of the small, silky cats. ‘This is Marmite. The others are Merlin and Mystic. We call them the M&Ms.’
‘Oh...’ He was looking down at his feet. Merlin, who was usually wary of strangers, was standing on his back feet, trying to reach his hand. He stretched out his fingers and the cat seemed to grow taller as he pushed his head against them.
Artistic fingers, Zanna noted, with their long shape that narrowed gradually to rounded tips. If Aunt Maggie were here, she’d say that this man was likely to be imaginative, impulsive and unconventional. That he’d prefer an occupation that gave him a sense of satisfaction even if it was poorly paid.
He’d said he used to be an architect. What did he do now? Consulting work with organisations like the historical protection society? It certainly seemed to fit.
Those artistic fingers were cupped now, shaping the cat’s body as they moved from its head to the tip of the long tail. Merlin emitted a sound of pleasure and Zanna had to bury her face in Marmite’s fur to stifle what could have been a tiny whimper of her own. She could almost feel what that caress would be like.
It was Mystic that started the yowling.
‘They’re hungry,’ Zanna said. ‘If I don’t feed them, they’ll be a nuisance, so would you mind if we start the tour in the kitchen?’
‘Not at all.’
She led him into the hallway—shadowy thanks to the obstructed light and the dark timber panelling on the walls. What saved it from being dingy was the large painting. A row of sunflowers that were vivid enough to cast an impression of muted sunshine that bathed the darkest point.
She knew that Nic had stopped in his tracks the moment he saw it. Zanna stopped, too, but not physically. Something inside her went very, very still. Holding its breath.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What anybody else thinks...
The involuntary grunt of sound expressed surprise. Appreciation. Admiration, even?
Okay. So it did matter. Zanna could feel a sweet shaft of light piercing what had become a dark place in her soul. Not that she could thank him for the gift. It was far too private. Too precious.
Opening the door to the sun-filled, farmhouse-style kitchen—her favourite part of the house—accentuated the new pleasure. The knowledge that Nic was right behind her added a dimension that somehow made it feel more real. Genuine. Even if nothing else came of this encounter, it had been worth inviting this stranger into her world.
* * *
The surprise of the stunning painting had only been a taste of what was to come. Nic had to stop again as he entered the huge kitchen space, blinking as he turned his head slowly to take it all in. It should be a nightmare scene to someone who preferred sleek, modern lines and an absence of clutter. It was only a matter of time before he experienced that inner shudder of distaste but at least he knew it was coming. He would be able to hide it.
Cast-iron kettles covered the top of an old coal range and the collection of ancient kitchen utensils hanging from an original drying rack would not have been out of place in a pioneer museum. The kauri dining table and chairs, hutch dresser and sideboard were also museum pieces but the atmosphere was unlike any such place Nic had ever been in. Splashes of vivid colour from bowls of fruit and vegetables, unusual ornaments and jugs stuffed with flowers made the kitchen come alive.
The shudder simply wasn’t happening. Instead, to his puzzlement, Nic found himself relaxing. Somehow, the overall effect was of an amazingly warm and welcome place to be. It felt like a place for...a family?
Abandoning his helmet on the floor, he sank onto a chair at one end of the long table as Zanna busied herself opening a can and spooning cat food into three bowls. When she crouched down, her jeans clung to the delicious curve of her bottom and the gap between the waistband and the hem of her orange top widened, giving him a view of a smooth back, interrupted only by the muted corrugations of her spine. He could imagine trailing his fingers gently over those bumps and then spreading them to encompass the curve of her hip.
Oh...Mon Dieu... The powerful surge of attraction coming in the wake of those other bursts of conflicting and disturbing emotions was doing his head in. He needed distraction. Fast.
Maybe that curious object wrapped in black velvet on the table, lying beside a wrought-iron candelabra, would do the trick. Lifting the careful folds of the fabric, Nic found himself looking at an oversized pack of cards.
Witchy sort of cards.
The shaft of desire he was grappling with morphed into a vague disquiet. It was very rare to feel even slightly out of his depth but it was happening now. There was an atmosphere of mystery here. Of eccentricity that had an undercurrent of serenity that had to come from someone who knew exactly who they were. Or something, perhaps, because he couldn’t be sure whether the vibe was coming from Zanna or the house.
Weird...
‘We keep them wrapped in black.’ Zanna’s voice was soft. And close. Nic looked up to see she had a pair of wine glasses dangling by their stems in one hand and a bottle in the other. She held it up in invitation and he nodded.
‘Sure. Why not?’
The wine was red. Blood red. His disquiet kicked up a notch.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘It just seemed like a good idea.’ Zanna wasn’t meeting his eyes. ‘A glass of wine is a nice way to wind down. We could go into the garden, if you like.’
He followed the direction of her gaze. French doors provided a glimpse of a bricked courtyard between the kitchen and a tangle of garden. An intimate kind of space.
‘I’m fine here.’ Nic cleared his throat. ‘I meant why do you wrap those cards in black?’
‘It’s a neutral colour that keeps outside energy away.’ Zanna had filled her own glass and she sat down at right angles to Nic.
‘It’s black magic, right? Witchcraft?’
The flash in those extraordinary eyes was enough to make Nic feel unaccountably apologetic.
‘I don’t believe in witchcraft,’ Zanna said, her voice tight. ‘And calling any of this black magic is an insult to my aunt. Her family can trace its roots back to the sixteenth century. They travelled around and made their living by things like fortune-telling. Aunt Maggie has a very strong affinity with her heritage. I’ve grown up with it and I love Maggie enough to respect it. I see it as another dimension—one that adds some colour and imagination to life and can help people cope with the hard stuff.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Sorry...I get a bit defensive. We’ve had people try and twist things into something they’re not and then use it against her. Against us.’
Nic said nothing. He had a feeling he knew who those people might be. But they were out of the picture now. He was the one who got to decide how things would be handled from now on. Except that he had no idea. Yet. He stared at the cards.
‘I’ve always thought of it as a load of rubbish,’ he admitted. ‘The fortune-telling, that is.’
‘Depends on how you look at it.’ Zanna reached out and touched the pack of cards with her fingertips. ‘It’s about symbols. They demand an active response. You have to think about how you really feel and trying to relate to an unexpected symbol like the picture on a card can make you consider a totally new dimension to a problem. I like to think of them as a tool for self-knowledge. A way of centring oneself, perhaps.’
‘Seeing the future?’ He couldn’t help the note of derision but she didn’t seem to take offence.
‘I don’t believe the future can be seen...but I don’t believe things are necessarily fated to happen either. There are choices to be made that can radically alter the direction you take in life. Big choices. Little choices. So many that you don’t even notice a lot of them but it pays to be aware. Some people think they have no control and they blame others when things go wrong. If you’ve made an active choice and things go wrong, you can learn from that experience and it’s less likely to happen again.’
Like falling in love with the wrong person...
Inviting a complete stranger into your home...
‘If you don’t believe the future can be seen, how can you tell a fortune and say something’s going to happen? Like a new job or overseas travel or...’ he snorted softly ‘...meeting a tall, dark, handsome stranger?’
Was that a reference to himself? Was he flirting with her? Zanna knew the rush of heat would be showing in her cheeks. Did he know how good looking he was? Probably. Nobody could be out there looking like that in a world full of women and not find it incredibly easy to get whatever he wanted. Maybe toying was a better word, then. It made her remember the way he’d been looking at her when he’d been playing with that crystal in the shop. It made her remember the way he’d made her feel. That reawakening of desire.
How far could that go?
How far did she want it to go?
‘Okay...’ She avoided meeting his eyes. ‘First off, I’d probably say that there was an opportunity of a new job or travel or something. You might not have been thinking about it but the idea would be planted and you’d be more open to new ideas because of that suggestion. You might recognise an opportunity and then you’d have a choice. Something would change. You’d either take that opportunity or be more content to stay where you were.’
‘Do you tell your own fortune?’
She smiled. ‘Occasionally. If I have a problem I want to think through. I prefer to have Aunt Maggie read my cards, though. It’s great fun and the best way I know to have a really meaningful conversation. That’s how this whole business started. Way back, before my time here, but I’ve had plenty of people tell me about it. They came to have their cards read and Maggie became a magnet for anyone with a problem. And she’s such a warm and loving person she would offer them tea and cakes at the same time and it all just grew into a way she could make her living.’
She took a sip of her wine and Nic couldn’t look away. He watched her bottom lip touch the glass and the way her throat rippled as she swallowed. He picked up his own glass to find it contained a surprisingly good red wine.
‘Back then,’ Zanna continued, ‘before the city centre spread and the houses gave way to office blocks and hotels, there were streets and streets of cottages. Houses that had big gardens with lots of fruit trees. People kept chickens. Mr Briggs down the road even kept a goat. So many people. This was the big house but everyone was welcome. They all adored Maggie and this place was like a community centre. I remember it being like that when I was young.’
‘But the houses have gone. There’s no community now.’ Okay, it was sad but things changed. Progress happened.
‘Some of the people still come back and talk about the old days. They can’t believe that the house and Maggie are just the same as ever and they love sharing the memories. She always promises she’ll still be here the next time they come.’
She wasn’t here now. If she was, Nic might have been tempted to ask to have his cards read so that he could see if she was as amazing as Zanna made her sound. Had she really helped solve problems for so many people?
‘Can you read the cards?’
Her eyes widened. Surprise or shock? ‘I’ve grown up with them...yes... I’m not as good as Maggie but I can certainly read them.’
‘Would you read them for me?’
The hesitation was obvious. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’
So that they could have a really meaningful conversation? So that he could sit here a while longer and put off thinking about why he was really here? Maybe even find a solution to his own problem?
Nic held her gaze. Long enough for a silent message that had nothing to do with fortune-telling. He wanted more than his cards read and that want was getting stronger by the minute.
‘Yeah...’ His voice was husky. ‘I’m sure.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_01119fca-bcf5-5513-96d7-c0aaeae2d39e)
HE HAD NO IDEA, did he, how much could be revealed in a reading? He was drinking his wine, leaning back in his chair and watching curiously as Zanna went through the ritual of lighting the five fat candles on the arms of the candelabra and opening a drawer to extract a tiny bottle of lavender oil that she sprinkled on the black velvet square.
‘To cleanse the space,’ she explained.
‘Right...’ The corner of his mouth quirked but his gaze had enough heat that she could only handle the briefest contact.
Was it what she was doing that had captured his attention so intently or was he watching her? Adding the impression to wondering what she was about to find out about him made her feel oddly nervous. She needed another mouthful of her wine.
‘The first thing I need to do is pick a card to represent you as the significator.’
‘The what?’
‘Significator. The querent. The seeker of knowledge.’ This was good. She could hide her nerves by doing something she knew she was good at. She spread the cards, face up, in front of her. The sound Nic made was incredulous.
‘But they’re beautiful... They look like artwork reproductions.’
‘This set is based on one of the oldest known packs. Tarot cards have been around for five hundred years. The first known cards were painted in Italy during the Renaissance. Back around the second half of the fifteenth century.’
Was he impressed with her knowledge? Why did she want him to be? Zanna glanced up but Nic was staring at the cards. Many pictures depicted people and each card had a title.
‘I don’t like that one,’ he muttered. ‘I hope Death isn’t going to appear in my line up.’
‘The meaning isn’t necessarily literal. The death card means that something must come to an end. Whether or not it’s painful depends on the person’s capacity to accept and recognise the necessity for that ending.’ The words came easily because they’d been learned many years ago. ‘Sometimes you have to let go of an old life in order to take the opportunity of a new and more fulfilling one.’
‘That’s very true.’ Yes, he was impressed. ‘Something I’ve always lived by, in fact.’ There was a question in his eyes now. Or was it an accusation? ‘Do you?’
Zanna blinked. This wasn’t supposed to be about her. She retreated into card lore as she looked away. ‘The cards are designed to portray a story. Kind of the rites of passage of an archetypal journey through life. Everybody faces the same sorts of challenges and problems—the same as they did five hundred years ago. People don’t change and it’s often a surprise to find how similar we are to those around us. Every situation is different but the challenges can be the same.’
‘You don’t really believe you can predict the future, do you?’
This time, Zanna was able to hold his gaze. ‘I believe that particular choices and situations have led to where one is in life and the response to that position presents future choices and situations. Understanding why and how some things have happened is the best way to cast a more conscious influence on the future.’ She gave herself a mental shake. ‘Are you over forty years of age?’
That made him blink. ‘Do I look like I’m over forty?’
A bubble of laughter escaped. ‘You could be a well-preserved specimen. How old are you?’
‘Thirty six. How old are you?’
‘That’s not the least bit relevant. You’re the one I need to find a card for.’
‘Hey...I answered your question.’ There was an unguarded tone in his voice. A peep at a small boy having a playground conversation perhaps. It gave her a soft buzz of something warm.
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ she relented. ‘Oh, yes...This is definitely you.’ She picked up the card. ‘The King of Pentacles.’
‘Why?’
‘He represents a strong, successful individual with a gift of manifesting creative ideas in the world. He also represents status and worldly achievement and has the Midas touch.’
He looked taken aback. Did he think that wearing well-worn leather and jeans would disguise his obvious lack of any serious financial hardship? That jacket had been expertly tailored to fit so well and the nails on the ends of those artistic fingers were beautifully manicured. His casual appreciation of the special wine she had chosen had been another giveaway. She placed the chosen card on the centre of the black cloth. Then she scooped up the rest of the pack and began shuffling the cards.
‘That’s a lot of cards.’
‘Seventy-eight.’ Zanna nodded. ‘The major Arcana that is the depiction of the journey and then the minor Arcana. Four suits of Cups, Wands, Swords and Pentacles. They represent elements and experiences.’ She spread the cards in a fan shape in front of Nic, facing down this time. ‘Formulate your question or think about a problem you want clarified,’ she invited. ‘You don’t have to tell me what it is. Then choose ten cards and hand them to me in the order selected.’
She placed the cards in set positions in the form of a Celtic cross. ‘This card over yours is the first one we look at. It’s the covering card. Where you are at the moment and the influences affecting you.’ She turned it over. ‘Hmm...interesting.’
He was sitting very still. He might think this was a load of rubbish but he was unable to stop himself buying into it.
‘Why?’
‘Page of Wands. It suggests that it’s time to discover a new potential. Also suggests restlessness at work. Something’s not going the way you want it to.’ She touched the card at right angles to the one she’d just read. ‘This is the crossing card. It describes what is generating conflict and obstruction at the moment.’ She turned the card face up.
The oath Nic muttered was in French but needed no translation.
‘You’re taking the pictures too literally,’ she told him. ‘The Hanged Man is a symbol. It suggests that a sacrifice of some sort might be needed. Maybe there’s something that would be difficult to give up but it needs to go because it’s blocking progress.’
He was giving her that odd look again. As though he was including her in whatever thought processes were going on.
‘This is the crowning card,’ she continued. ‘It represents an aim or ideal that is not yet actual.’
‘The future?’
‘Potentially.’
‘What’s the Queen of Wands?’
Should she tell Nic that the Queen of Wands was the card that had always been picked as the significator for her own readings?
‘She’s industrious, versatile, strong-willed and talented.’ Zanna kept her eyes firmly on the card. ‘She’s also self-contained and stable. She holds her great strength and energy within, devoting them to the few things to which she chooses to give her heart.’
The moment’s silence was enough to make her realise that she didn’t need to tell Nic about her own relationship to this particular card. He was joining the dots all by himself.
‘It may not mean a person, as such,’ she added. ‘It could mean that it’s time to start developing her qualities yourself. Things like warmth and loyalty and being able to sustain a creative vision.’
He wasn’t buying that. He’d made his mind up, hadn’t he, and she could sense his immovability when that happened.
The card depicting the immediate future suggested a dilemma to be faced with either choice leading to trouble and the card representing the kind of response that Nic could expect from others was one of her favourites—the Lovers.
Nic clearly approved of it, too. ‘Now, why didn’t that one show up for my immediate future?’ he murmured. ‘That would have been something to look forward to.’
The tone of his voice held a seductive note that rippled through every cell in Zanna’s body like a powerful drug. She hadn’t felt this alive for so long.
Maybe she never had.
Had this man come into her life to teach her to feel things she didn’t know she was capable of feeling?
What would she do if he touched her with the kind of intent that tone promised?
Could she resist? Would she even try?
Maybe not. Zanna did her best to quell the curl of sensation deep in her belly. The anticipation. ‘You’re being too literal again. This card is the view of others. It could be that you’re doing something to make them think as they do.’
She could sense his discomfort and it was disturbing.
He may not be who he seems to be. Take care...
She knew he might be dangerous. It was reckless to be taking pleasure from his company. From this anticipation of what might be going to happen, but maybe that was what was making this such a thrill. Adding something wild and even more exciting to this chemical attraction.
It was an effort to keep her voice even. ‘This particular card might mean that you have to make a choice and it probably concerns love. It might be choosing between love and a career or creative activity. Or it could be that you’re involved in a triangle of some sort. Or that someone’s trying to get you to marry in a hurry.’
He was shaking his head now. ‘I never have to choose between love and my career. I’ve never even thought about marriage and I avoid triangles at all costs.’
He walked alone, then? He was unattached?
The thought should have made him seem more attractive but something didn’t feel right.
Zanna read a few more of the cards before she realised what was nagging at the back of her mind. It was too much of a coincidence that she felt so involved with every interpretation he was making. For whatever reason, Nic had included her in the question or problem he had brought to this reading.
Why?
‘This card represents your hopes and fears.’
‘The Fool? Who isn’t afraid of making a fool of themselves?’
‘The fear might apply to the fact that a risk of some kind is required. It suggests that a new chapter of your life might be about to begin but it needs a willingness to take a leap into the unknown. It fits with a lot of other cards here.’
‘What’s the last one?’
‘That position is the final outcome. It should give you some clues to answer the question you brought into the reading.’ Her own heart picked up speed as she turned it over. ‘Oh...’
The tension was palpable. Nic didn’t have to say anything to demand an explanation.
‘The Ace of Swords means a new beginning,’ she told him quietly. ‘But one that comes out of a struggle or conflict.’
He drained his glass of wine. It was all rubbish. So why did it feel so personal? It was obvious that Zanna was part of his immediate future. That it was going to be a struggle to get what he wanted. But did she really need to be sacrificed?
The thought was disturbing. She was part of this place and it felt like a home. A kind of portal to those memories buried so far back in his own story. Nic looked away from the table, his gaze downcast. It was the first time he’d noticed the floor of this space. A background of grey tiling that resembled flagstones had been inset with mosaic details. Starburst designs made up of tiny fragments of colour that dotted the floor at pleasingly irregular intervals.
‘It’s not original, is it?’ he queried. ‘The floor?’
‘Depends what you mean by original.’ Zanna was refilling his glass. ‘The old floorboards became unsafe because they were rotten. Maggie and I have always considered our creative efforts pretty original, though.’
‘You made this floor?’
‘Yes.’ She topped up her own glass. ‘Took ages but we loved doing it. In fact, we loved it so much we did flagstones for the garden, too. And a birdbath.’
Nic shook his head. Extraordinary.
‘Maybe it’s something to do with gypsy blood. Making do with what you find lying around. We dug up so much old broken china around here that it seemed a shame not to do something with it so we broke it up a bit more and used it for mosaic work.’
‘Taking an opportunity, huh? Dealing with a problem.’
‘Yes.’ She was smiling at him as if he’d understood something she’d been trying to teach. The sense of approval made him feel absurdly pleased with himself.
‘So you really do come from a gypsy bloodline?’
‘Absolutely. It’s only a few generations ago that my family on my father’s side was travelling. Maggie was my dad’s older sister. My great-grandfather was born in a caravan.’
‘Where does the name Zelensky come from?’
‘Eastern Europe. Probably Romania. That’s where my aunt Maggie’s gone now. She was desperate to find out more about her family before she’s too old to travel.’
The smile curled far enough to create a dimple. ‘What’s funny?’ Nic asked.
‘Just that Maggie’s got more energy and enthusiasm than most people half her age have. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever known and I never fail to feel enormously grateful that she was there to rescue me when I got orphaned.’
Suddenly Nic wanted to change the subject but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded that she was vulnerable. That she’d been a frightened child. That this place was her home. Her refuge. Because it would give her an advantage in the conflict he knew was coming?
That was weird in itself. Nic didn’t let emotions sway business decisions.
This was hardly a business decision, though, was it? It couldn’t be more different from the luxury resorts he’d become known for designing and developing in recent years. And the impulsive decision to buy into Rata Avenue had unleashed so many personal memories. This had nothing to do with business, in fact. This was deeply personal. A step back in time to where he’d spent the most vulnerable years of his own life.
Was that why this house felt so much like home?
He cast another glance around the kitchen. No, this was nothing like the fragments of memory he still had. The kitchen in the cottage had been tiny and dark and it had taken a huge effort from Maman to keep it sparkling clean. There was something about this space that tugged hard at those memories, however. Some of those old utensils, perhaps—like the metal sieve that had holes in the shape of flowers? He dropped his gaze to the floor. To the fragments of the old china embedded in the tiles.
Blue and white were prominent but many had small flowers on them. Like that one, with a dusty pink rose. He almost didn’t recognise his own voice when he spoke.
‘Where did you say you got all the china?’
‘We dug it up. Some of it was in our own garden but most came from next door where the park is now. There was a cottage there that was even older than this place. The council acquired the land and demolished the cottage before I came here but it was a long time before the site was cleaned up so it was like a playground for me. I knew I wasn’t allowed to go too close to the river but once I started finding the pretty pieces of broken china, I didn’t want to. It was like a treasure hunt I could keep going back to. I think that was where my love of flowers came from.’
But Nic wasn’t listening to her words. He wasn’t even thinking of how musical that lilt in her voice was. He was thinking of a china cup that had pink rosebuds on it and a gold handle. He could see his mother’s hands cradling it—the way she had when she’d become lost in her sadness. He could see the look in her eyes above the gold rim of the cup that matched the handle. He could feel the sensation of being so lost. Not knowing what to do to make her smile again. To bring back the laughter and the music.
‘When I’m big, Mama, I’ll be rich. I’ll buy that big house next door for you.’
How could grief be so sharp when it had been totally buried for so many years?
Maybe it wasn’t Zanna’s vulnerability he needed to worry about at all. It was his own.
The pain was timely. He was here for a reason—to honour his parents—and he couldn’t let anyone else dilute that resolution. No matter how beautiful they were.
‘I should go.’ He glanced at his watch. How on earth had so much time passed? ‘It’s getting late.’
‘But didn’t you want to see the house?’ There was a faint note of alarm in Zanna’s voice. ‘There’s still time before it gets dark.’
‘Another time perhaps.’ Except the words didn’t quite leave his mouth because Nic made the mistake of looking up again.
The sun was much lower now and the light in the room had changed, becoming softer and warmer. Shards of colour caught in his peripheral vision as the light came through stained-glass panels and bounced off cut crystals that were hanging on silver wires.
It made that amazing colour of Zanna’s hair even more like flames. Glowing and so alive—like her eyes and skin, and that intriguing personality.
There was no point in seeing the rest of the house but he didn’t want to leave just yet. He might not get another time with her like this. Before she knew who he was or what he wanted. And being with her—here—might be the only way to get more of those poignant glimpses into his own past. As painful as they were, they were also treasure. Forgotten jewels.
Was it wrong to want more?
Quite possibly, but—heaven help him—he couldn’t resist.
‘Sure,’ he heard himself saying instead. ‘Why not?’
* * *
Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to give Nic a tour of the house.
It might have been better to let him wander around by himself. But how could she have known that he would pick out the features she loved most herself? That the feeling of connection would gain power with every passing room?
He commented on the graceful proportions of the huge downstairs rooms, the ornately carved fireplaces and the beautiful lead-light work of the stained-glass fanlights. He knew more than she did about old houses, too.
‘Those ceiling roses were more than a decorative feature.’ With his head tilted back to inspect the central light surround, the skin on his neck looked soft and vulnerable. Zanna could imagine all too easily how soft it would feel to her fingers. Or her lips...
‘They’re actually ventilators. Those gaps in the plasterwork were designed to let out hot air.’
‘Useful.’ Her murmur earned her a glance accentuated by a quirked eyebrow. Could he feel the heat coming from her body?
No. It definitely hadn’t been such a good idea to do this. Zanna froze for a moment at the bottom of the staircase. The rooms on the next level were far more personal. What would he say when he saw more of her handiwork? Could it take away that sweet pleasure that his reaction to the sunflower painting had given her?
He hadn’t stopped moving when she did so his body came within a hair’s breadth of bumping into hers. Her forward movement was an instinctive defence against such a powerful force and there was only one way to go.
Up the stairs.
Maggie’s room was safe enough. So were the spare bedrooms but the bathroom was next and she stood back to let Nic enter the room alone. Folding her arms around her body was an unconscious movement that was both a comfort and a defence.
* * *
So far, the features of this house had been expected. Period features that were valuable in their own right. Things that could be salvaged and recycled so they wouldn’t be lost and he wouldn’t need to feel guilty about their destruction.
But this...
Nic was speechless.
The fittings were in keeping with the house. The claw-foot bath, the pedestal hand basin and the ceramic toilet bowl and cistern with its chain flush, but everything had been painted with trails of ivy. The tiny leaves on the painted vines crept over the white tiled walls from the arched window, making it appear as though the growth had come naturally from outside the house. The floor was also tiled in white but there were small diamond-shaped insets in the same shade of green as the ivy. The interior of the antique bathtub was also painted the same dark green.
‘C’est si spécial...’
Reverting to the language of his heart only happened when something touched him deeply but he didn’t translate the phrase as he walked back past Zanna. She didn’t move so he kept going towards the last door that opened off this hallway.
Directly over the shop, this room shared the feature of a large bay window but here it had been inset with a window seat that followed the semi-circular line. A brass bed, probably as old as the house, had a central position and the colours in the patchwork quilt echoed those of the tiles in the nearby fireplace.
The walls were lined with tongue-and-groove timber that had been painted the palest shade of green. Dotted at random intervals, but no more than a few centimetres apart, were reproductions of flowerheads. Every imaginable flower could be found somewhere on these wooden walls. From large roses and lilies to pansies and daisies—right down to the tiniest forget-me-nots.
‘The hours this must have taken...’ Nic murmured aloud. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’
‘It was good practice.’
Startled, Nic turned to find he wasn’t alone in the room any longer. That feeling he’d had earlier of being potentially out of his depth had nothing on the way the ground had just shifted beneath him.
‘You painted these?’
The shrug was almost imperceptible but the modesty was appealing. ‘Maggie gave me an encyclopaedia of flowers for my twelfth birthday. I added one almost every day for years.’
‘And the ivy in the bathroom?’
‘That was a wet May school holiday.’ Another tiny shrug came with the hint of a smile. ‘Maggie said it would keep me out of mischief.’
He stared at her. ‘Do you know how extraordinary you are, Zanna Zelensky? How talented?’
She simply stared back at him. As though he’d said something wrong and she was trying to decide what to do about it. The moment stretched but Nic couldn’t break the silence. The air hummed with a curious tension but he had no clue as to what might have caused it.
Finally, she spoke.
‘There’s one room you haven’t seen yet.’
His nod was solemn. His mouth felt dry and he had to lick his lips.
The turret. The one room he’d wanted to see inside for as long as he could remember. The child buried deep inside was about to have his dearest wish granted. But...what if it was a disappointment? If it was nothing more than, say, a storage area?
He forced his feet to start moving. To follow Zanna up the narrow, spiral staircase that led to the secret room beneath the witch’s hat of the turret. If it was less than he hoped for, he’d cope. He had with every other childish hope and dream that had been crushed, hadn’t he?
Opening the small door at the top of the stairs, Zanna walked ahead of him. She said nothing. She didn’t even turn around as she walked over to one of the arched windows and stared out as if she was giving Nic some privacy.
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Alison Roberts
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: In Her Rival′s Arms, электронная книга автора Alison Roberts на английском языке, в жанре современные любовные романы