Captivated Read Online Free PDF Page B

and genuine as that. And all she’d done was ask.
    “And, of course, I want to make pots of money,” he added, trying to grin. His head felt light, his skin too warm.
    “I don’t see that one desire has to be exclusive of the other. There have been storytellers in my family from the fairy days down to my mother. We understand the value of stories.”
    Perhaps that was why she hadn’t dismissed him from the outset. She respected what he did. That, too, was in her blood.
    “Consider this.” She leaned forward, and he felt the punch of something in his gut, something that went beyond her beauty. “If I agree to help you, I refuse to let you fall back on the lowest common denominator. The old crone, cackling as she mixes henbane in the cauldron.”
    He smiled. “Convince me.”
    “Be careful what you dare, Nash,” she murmured, rising. “Come inside. I’m thirsty.”
    Since he was no longer worried about being chewed up by her guard dog, who was now strolling contentedly beside them, Nash took time to admire her house. He already knew that many of the homes alongthe Monterey Peninsula were extraordinary and unique. He’d bought one himself. Morgana’s had the added allure of age and grace.
    It was three stories of stone, turreted and towered—to suit a witch, he supposed. But it was neither Gothic nor grim. Tall, graceful windows flashed in the sunlight, and climbing flowers crept up the walls to twine and tangle in lacy ironwork. Carved into the stone were winged fairies and mermaids, adding charm. Lovely robed figures served as rainspouts.
    Interior scene, night, he mused. Inside the topmost tower of the old stone house by the sea, the beautiful young witch sits in a ring of candles. The room is shadowy, with the light fluttering over the faces of statues, the stems of silver goblets, a clear orb of crystal. She wears a sheer white robe open to the waist. A heavy carvedamulet hangs between the swell of her breasts. A deep hum seems to come from the stones themselves as she lifts two photographs high in the air.
    The candles flicker. A wind rises within the closed room to lift her hair and ripple the robe. She chants. Ancient words, in a low, smoldering voice. She touches the photos to the candle flame. . . . No, scratch that. She . . . yeah, she sprinkles the photos with the glowing liquid from a cracked blue bowl. A hiss of steam. The humming takes on a slow, sinuous beat. Her body sways with it as she places the photos face-to-face, laying them on a silver tray. A secret smile crosses her face as the photos fuse together.
    Fade out.
    He liked it, though he figured she could add a bit more color to the casting of a love spell.
    Content with his silence, Morgana took him around the side of the house, where the sound of water on rock rumbled and the cypress grove, trees bent and gnarled by time and wind, stood watch. They crossed a stone patio shaped like a pentagram, at whose top point stood a brass statue of a woman. Water gurgled in a tiny pool at her feet.
    “Who’s she?” Nash asked.
    “She has many names.” Moving to the statue, Morgana took up a small ladle, dipped it in the clear pool. She sipped, then poured the rest onto the ground for the goddess. Without a word, she crossed the patio againand entered a sunny, spotless kitchen. “Do you believe in a creator?”
    The question surprised him. “Yeah, sure. I suppose.” He shifted uncomfortably while she walked across a white tiled floor to the sink to rinse her hands. “This—your witchcraft—it’s a religious thing?”
    She smiled as she took out a pitcher of lemonade. “Life’s a religious thing. But don’t worry, Nash—I won’t try to convert you.” She filled two glasses with ice. “It shouldn’t make you uncomfortable. Your stories are invariably about good and evil. People are always making choices, whether to be one or the other.”
    “What about you?”
    She offered him his glass, then turned to walk through an archway