Spellbinder: A Love Story With Magical Interruptions Read online

  That’s my girl!

  “Ponder this,” Holly said, the edge gone from her voice now that she’d delivered the rebuke. “The knights are young and full of religious fervor, and have no suspicion how badly they’re going to be injured—physically, psychologically. Like a young cop, who wants to help people and catch the bad guys, all idealism and bright illusions. But he’s going to get hurt.”

  “And this guy knows it.” This from another man, whose voice was younger and properly respectful.

  “He surely does. He looks much like the rest—only of course he’s taller, handsomer, sexier, all the usual attributes of the romantic hero—” She laughed with her listeners, and Lachlan rolled his eyes. “—but there’s no holy fire of devotion about him. He’s seen too much. He knows too much. There’s a sequence later on where the girl confronts him, asks why he’s doing it, and what he answers is more or less what I think my cop friend would say. That he does believe, but not the way these kids do. They think they’re seeing clearly, but between them and reality are their illusions. He had those kicked out of him a long time ago.”

  Is that how she sees me?

  “He knows that when you finally look reality in the face, your instincts kick in, the most basic parts of what and who you are. And if you’re honorable and honest, you can trust those instincts—not only with your own life, but with the lives in your care. Once the illusions are gone, and you see reality for what it is, then and only then can you do the work right.”

  “I never looked at it that way,” a woman mused. “But I bet this goes over real well with the girl.”

  “She’s very young, remember—just sixteen, and deplorably virginal. She wants him to be her White Knight, and he won’t oblige. But she comes to realize that she doesn’t want a White Knight. What would she do with him, anyway? Her sole function in his life would be to keep his armor polished. No, she wants a real man—”

  “Don’t we all,” sighed the questioner, and everyone laughed.

  “Tell me about it,” Holly agreed, and Lachlan could almost see her wry grin. “You think you’ve found one, and you’re willing to put up with his faults because he’s smart and strong and quick and confident, not to mention gorgeous—”

  He chuckled silently. From “beautiful” to “gorgeous” in under ten minutes—not bad. But—what faults?

  “You go, girl!”

  “I’m definitely not introducing him to you!” Holly laughed, then admonished teasingly, “Back to the book. These two people have a lot to teach each other. For instance, one thing she learns from him is that sex doesn’t have to be complicated. He’s had about a zillion women—”

  Aw, c‘mon—what the hell has Susannah been sayin’ about me, anyway?

  “—and sex is the one thing he takes unmitigated pleasure in. For her, it’s something to be wary of, because all the men she knows are after something besides her body, and they certainly don’t want her love. They want her money, her title, her lands, the power that goes with all that. So she resists this man until she can’t hold out any more. When she does give in, it’s like falling down a well in the dark. She’s terribly afraid that it’ll feel like all the other times she’s been in love—she’ll climb out feeling like she’s covered in mud.”

  Jesus, Holly—is that you talking, or you talking about the girl? With her next sentence, he had the answer.

  “But with him, it’s perfect—cool, clear water, washing her clean. No regret, no betrayal. All the same, she teaches him that he’s never really made love before. Had sex, yes. Made love—very different.”

  A woman asked, “I was about to ask how she changes him.”

  “If they truly fall in love, she’ll open his heart and rekindle his belief—not in the illusion of love, but in the reality of passion and tenderness. Because he does need to believe. He’s far too sensitive to live without faith in something.”

  “And if you don’t have them fall in love?” someone else asked.

  “Where I want them to go is irrelevant. Characters in novels do what they’re going to do. Remind me to tell you about the guy for whom I had great plans—who got himself killed in a knife-fight without my permission! As for this pair—I’m not sure about them. They don’t even have names yet. She might become a symbol—and here’s the medieval troubadour tradition of courtly love coming into play—of something he can never have. He might prefer it that way. Love can be hideously cruel. If she’s only a symbol, she’s easier to deal with, either to accept as his lady fair on a marble pedestal—and nothing more—or to reject outright.”

  “As if he’d love to love her,” a young male voice said eagerly, “but he’s scared to—and blames her for it.”

  “Pretty much,” Holly agreed.

  Hey, wait a minute—

  “Is this a kind of autobiographical piece set in the past? You and your policeman friend?”

  “God, no!” Holly laughed again. “For one thing, I ain’t no sixteen-year-old virgin! And he’s no knight in shining armor, believe me.”

  So much for the romantic hero, Lachlan mused. If not a White Knight, how about a “real man”? Still—if I’m him and she’s her, and she’s sayin’ what I think she’s sayin’—

  “You can’t translate directly that way,” she continued more seriously, as if she’d heard his thought. “You can use templates for physical description or character traits, but a twelfth-century French knight has an entirely different mind-set than a twenty-first-century Irish cop.” She paused, then said dryly, “Of course, my real problem is I can’t keep the guy from sounding like a twenty-first-century Irish cop!”

  They laughed with her, and went on discussing how to construct character. Evan tuned out, replaying her words in his mind.

  Beautiful he now dismissed with a complacent little shrug. She’d already let him know she liked the way he looked. But the way she described him—or was she describing the knight?—yeah, that threw him. Was he really like that?

  She was the professional. She made a damned good living at this. She must know. Or else she’d just taken his physical description and put somebody else’s personality inside. But she’d said the knight was based on him. Had he just been convenient when she needed somebody for a book she was already doing? Or had he truly inspired her to create this character?

  And then he thought about what she’d said at the beginning, about an idea flirting with you and then leaving without even a good-bye kiss.

  He supposed he really had had the illusions kicked out of him. During his few years as a street cop, he’d seen enough to harden him. But everything had avalanched down on him one rainy night when a drug summit gone wrong had ended up in a Lower East Side street cluttered with corpses, two of them fellow cops. It wasn’t until the ballistics report arrived that he learned he’d shot and killed four people—him, son of a beat cop who’d never even unholstered his weapon during twenty years on the job. The expression in his old man’s eyes that night didn’t bear remembering. And the expression that just wouldn’t leave his own had scared him. Digging himself out of the wreckage of his rookie idealism hadn’t been a painless process, and there’d been some pretty harsh blows to his ego along the way, but the end result was that he had no illusions left at all.

  Which had left him with instinct, just like she’d said.

  It was hard to remind himself that this was a story. Fiction. Not him, not her. What had she said—something about the characters doing what they wanted to do, not what she told them to do?

  Just a story. But her speculations about its possible directions shook him. Falling for her—or trying very hard not to fall for her, resenting her for his own fear—

  She didn’t scare him. But maybe what he was feeling for her did. And the outcome—story-wise, personal-wise, and otherwise—was up to him.

  Silently, he walked around the bookcases. She was lecturing about plot flowing from character, and the thirty or so people crowded around her were listening and even taking notes.
Then she glanced up and saw him.

  She kept talking. Even though her eyes widened and her right hand fisted around her pen and a flush burned her cheeks, she kept right on talking. Lachlan stood there, arms folded over his coat, watching her without a single flicker of expression on his face. He had to admire the lady’s aplomb.

  Now that he knew, he saw the signs—and wondered how he’d been so blind to them. Her hair might be casual, but it was the work of an accomplished stylist. Same with the makeup: the less it looked like a woman used, the more it cost. The clothes were low-key, professional, sophisticated: cinnamon wool skirt, matching cardigan, ivory shirt. The jewelry was a diamond solitaire necklace and matching earrings, not gaudy but very expensive. He’d worked cases in the diamond mart and learned how to tell one carat from two. Or three.

  The store manager called for another autograph session, and Lachlan duly got in line. The girl just ahead of him had been at the reading; she said to Holly, “I really liked what you read us. When will the book be coming out?”

  “I don’t know. As I said, it might be nothing more than a short story.”

  Evan felt his lips twist wryly.

  “Or it might turn into a novel. Who knows?” She held up her hands in a what-the-hell gesture, smiling. “I could want to write about this guy for a long, long time.”

  Oh, yeah—this was definitely meant for him.

  The girl left, arms full of books. Evan stepped up to the table and dug the paperback out of his pocket. “You said the characters don’t have names yet,” he remarked as he handed her the book. “Have you got any in mind?”

  She looked straight up at him, calm and unblinking. “I was considering ‘Elisabeth’ for the girl and ‘Guillaume’ for the knight, but I’m not sure yet. I still have reservations.”

  Evan Liam Lachlan smiled at Holly Elizabeth McClure. “So do I—for two, tonight at La Pasta Vita.” He didn’t, but that could be quickly remedied. “I was hoping you’d join me.”

  He knew everyone else in line was gaping. Holly was aware of them, too—and played to them, the vindictive bitch. He stifled a snort of laughter as she tilted her head slightly to one side, her cool blue gaze running down his gray sweater and faded workshirt and battered jeans—lingering at his inseam. She couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d ordered him to strip and asked for a ruler. Revenge, he supposed, forbidding himself to be embarrassed by her scrutiny. Or the scrutiny of others—who were looking at his height, his nose, his hair, and his eyes with more than a little curiosity.

  At last she arched a brow. “What time?” He’d passed inspection.

  “7:30.” He kept the grin from his face. “I’m honored, Ms. McClure.”

  “I’m flattered, Mr.—?” She looked expectantly at him, as if truly not knowing who he was.

  “Lachlan.”

  She nodded, as if storing the unfamiliar name in memory. She scribbled something on the title page of the book, closed it, and handed it back to him with a bright professional smile. “Thanks so much for being here today.”

  He winked at her and left the store. A phone call later, the reservations were real. He went home and puttered around until 6:30, then changed into stiff new Levi’s, soft white shirt, brown pullover that brought out the green in his eyes, and his beloved cowboy boots. Wallet, keys, jacket—he was ready. Then he took a last look at himself in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Nope, no knight in shining armor.

  Just as well.

  “‘Dangerous,’ huh?” he asked his reflection, and laughed.

  Three

  TO SPEND AN HOUR DRESSING for a date with a man for whom she wasn’t going to be undressing was ridiculous, and Holly was disgusted with herself. It wasn’t as if anything would come of this dinner. She could’ve scripted the whole thing. He’d make a few remarks about her using him as a character (Christ on the cross, what she wouldn’t give to have chosen anything else to read), and she’d shrug as if it didn’t matter, and he’d tell her he hadn’t been put on this Earth to provide her with material for a short story, let alone a novel. She’d cut to the chase and say Fine, I do what I do and you do what you do, and you don’t like it that I make more money at my job than you do at yours. Personally, I think what they pay me in relation to what they pay you is obscene—but I’m not going to give it back, either: They’d snipe some more and she’d walk out—leaving a hundred-dollar bill at the front desk to pay for dinner, her last little insult.

  She dressed in one outfit, then another, then a third, and a fourth, and finally stood naked in the huge closet, analyzing the situation.

  Skirt? Too short and he’d think she was giving him a look at her legs to remind him of what he wasn’t going to get later. Always assuming he still wanted it. Besides, he’d already taken a good look this afternoon at the signing. But if she wore a skirt that was too long, he’d get no look at all at what he wasn’t going to get.

  Trousers. The gray wool would make her look like she was late to a business meeting. Denim was too casual. It was too chilly for silk or linen. Maybe the black velvet jeans. And heels to make her nearer his height. She hated it when men looked down on her. At five-nine and change, she found there weren’t many who could. Lachlan was six-four in his socks. She pawed through her shirt collection, telling herself she really ought to get rid of some of this stuff, rejecting all until she came to a teal-blue satin. She hauled on the clothes, brushed her hair, and made up her face while wondering if there was enough powder in the world to minimize her goddamned freckles. Then she went to explore her jewelry cases.

  She was tempted to put on something really, really expensive, like the sapphires and diamonds she’d treated herself to when she turned thirty-five. But she stayed with the solitaire diamond that had been her gift to herself on publication of the Christine de Pisan book, and the matching earrings that similarly commemorated Artemisia Gentileschi. Yes, she did have money, and the hell with him if he didn’t like it. She bought what she wanted, wore what she wanted, and—and the hell with him anyway. Shouldering into a coat, she went out the door before she could change her mind again.

  And stopped at the elevator and went back to her apartment to abandon the jeans for a short black skirt and black hose and a pair of four-inch stilettos—cursing him and herself to kingdom come. By then it was past seven and she didn’t have time to dither anymore.

  They got to the restaurant at the same time—he walking from one direction, she from the other. He wore a leather jacket that further broadened his shoulders and gave some taper to his waist, making him look slimmer than he really was. His height and heft always hit her like a fist in the stomach—a strength that could be bulky and threatening but for her was always solid, supple, masculine—a presence. Powerful; she’d picked the right word for him. And he was so aware of it, so perfectly capable of using it to his precisely calculated advantage.

  His sexuality, on the other hand, he simply flaunted. He was casually dressed tonight, but he wore all his clothes the same way: bathrobe or jeans or suit (and those awful ostrich-leather cowboy boots), he gave the feeling that he inhabited fabric only because society required it. The smug bastard knew that his best clothing was his own skin. She thought about that skin for a moment, and the long strong bones and hard curving muscles it covered, and steeled her jaw.

  “Nice,” he commented as they met outside the door, his gaze running over her legs.

  “Thanks. You, too.” And then some, the miserable son of a bitch. What that sweater did to those great big hazel-green eyes—

  He smiled. She blushed as if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. He opened the door for her, and they went inside. Ten minutes later, wine and pasta selected, they waited for salads in total silence.

  All at once Evan said, “That book you signed for me—I read it, y’know. Yesterday.”

  “Did you?” She glanced up in surprise.

  “Yeah.” He sipped Chianti. “I liked it. Not my thing, but I did like it.”

 
“Thanks.” She paused. “Did you read what I wrote in your copy?”

  He shook his head. “The way you were looking at me, I didn’t think it’d be anything I wanted to read.”

  “You were wrong,” she replied calmly.

  “So what’d it say?”

  “Go home and see for yourself.”

  Salads came. They ate. Salads were removed. They drank wine and dipped bread in rosemary-flavored olive oil.

  “Why didn’t you want to read what’s in your copy?” Holly asked. “What did you think I’d write?”

  “Something about what an asshole I am.”

  She choked on wine and laughter. Napkin at her mouth, she looked at his twinkling eyes and the impossible grin on his face.

  “Well, that’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?” he prompted.

  She nodded. After a sip of water, she said, “I can’t help what I do, Evan. I wouldn’t even if I could. I love my work as much as you love yours. I know I should’ve told you—”

  “Susannah says men hit on you because of who you are.” He eyed her over the rim of his wineglass. “I guess you’re lookin’ for somebody who’s just after your body, right?”

  “You are an asshole, Lachlan.” But she grinned back. “Look, I really am sorry I didn’t say anything. It’s just so good to be with a man who doesn’t want me to read his Great American Novel, or get his hands on my bank account or my agent, or meet the people who hang around literary events in New York. You don’t care about any of that. Do you have any idea what a relief that is?”

  “I wouldn’t say I don’t care about the bank account.”

  Here it comes, she thought. “All right, let’s talk money. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothin’—if you earn it.”

  “Now you wait just a goddamned minute—”

  “Which I never said you didn’t,” he interrupted. “Christ, lady, throttle it back, willya? Red hair, freckles, and an Irish temper—what a cliché.”