Magical Memories Page 3

  “I trust you.”

  He shook his head again. “You don’t know me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Really?” he asked sarcastically. “What do you know? Dazzle me with your sixth sense.”

  Tempest leaned forward, folding her arms to rest on the table, and looked directly in his eyes. “I know you are a man who has spent most of his life alone. You have lived too close to the edge, all the time searching, for what you don’t know. You play fair with those who play fair with you. You hurt no one who hurts you. And you will not allow yourself to care deeply or love, for in your experience it only brings hurt, pain and disappointment. So you run from place to place, searching but fearful of finding.”

  Michael remained speechless. Her accuracy astonished him and hearing his own doubts and vulnerabilities spoken of by a stranger frightened him. He had always managed to erect a wall between him and the people he met. She was right about him not caring deeply or loving. He had learned at an early age that it didn’t pay to love. When you loved someone or even cared for them they eventually went away, and you were left alone, completely alone, and that was a painful lesson for a boy of eight to learn.

  He kept direct eye contact with her even though her green eyes held him more spellbound than his dark eyes held hers. “You’re so certain I won’t hurt you?”

  “Positive,” she said without hesitation. “I mean you no harm, so therefore you will show me no harm.”

  He told himself he shouldn’t—it wasn’t right—but then she was so positive, so sure of herself that he had to demonstrate the obvious. He leaned closer to her, his intentions clear, his lips moist, ready, and eager to kiss her.

  She laughed softly. It sounded like a sweet melody drifting around them, and then she leaned forward herself and whispered, “If it is a kiss you wish, just ask.”

  He stopped, his lips a short distance from hers. “You don’t possess a lick of common sense.”

  “No, I don’t,” she agreed in a whisper. “But I possess self-confidence that startles most. Don’t you agree?” She laughed, the tender melody wrapping around them as she closed the short distance between them and kissed him gently, a faint brush of her lips over his before settling with care over his mouth and capturing a kiss that stung the senses.

  Without thought Michael rushed his tongue over her lips ready to penetrate, deepen the contact, but she backed away from him ever so slowly, and he sensed reluctance. He did not pursue her, though he wanted to.

  “You tempt fate, Tempest.”

  “No, Michael, fate tempts each and every one of us.”

  He leaned closer to her. “Who are you? You appear in the middle of a god-awful snowstorm, driving like a neophyte and you live here”—he waved his hand toward the large window—”in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I like my solitude,” she answered with complete honesty.

  “Yet you generously open your home to a stranger.”

  “A man in need,” she corrected.

  “A stranger,” he reiterated.

  She held her hand out to him. “My name is Tempest, and I am pleased to meet you.”

  He took her hand with a shake of his head. “Michael Deeds and the pleasure is mine.”

  She squeezed his hand with gentle eagerness. “Now we’re no longer strangers. We’re friends.”

  “Acquaintances.”

  She patted his arm. “I have run you down with my car, helped get you to a doctor, opened my home to you, undressed you and put you to bed. I think we can call ourselves friends.”

  “That brings up several unanswered questions. How exactly did you manage to get me into the house, undress me and get me into bed all by yourself?”

  Her smile warned of her answer, and he stopped her with an upheld hand. “Don’t tell me. A wish and a prayer.”

  With excitement she said, “See, you know me already.”

  “You’re beginning to make sense—a frightening thought.”

  They both laughed and Tempest offered him another cinnamon bun.

  “You’re an excellent cook,” he said, accepting not only the treat but the friendship she so generously offered him. He never really had a friend. He had long ago convinced himself that he didn’t need anyone; he had himself. It was strange to think that another person actually cared about him and stranger still that he liked the feeling.

  There was, however, one other detail he had to address. “I can’t accept charity. There must be something I can do to repay your generosity.”

  “How are you in the kitchen?”

  He laughed. “I’m not inept, but...”

  “We’ll work something out,” she agreed graciously. “For now I think you should concentrate on healing that ankle, which means staying off it and resting.”

  His protest was interrupted by a yawn.

  “A nap would suit you well now.”

  He did feel tired and pleasantly full from the delicious breakfast, but he felt obliged to help her. She had done much too much for him already. “I’ll help you wash the dishes first.”

  She stood and offered him her hand. “No, you will rest as the doctor ordered.”

  “After I help you,” he insisted, ignoring her outstretched hand and standing on his own though he tilted heavily to the left, and if it wasn’t for her assistance he just might have toppled over.

  “You will rest.”

  It sounded like an order to Michael, and he never took well to orders. “First I help you.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “So stubborn.”

  He was about to agree when her hand touched his face and his eyes grew too heavy to keep open.

  Chapter Three

  The phone rang just as Tempest finished making certain Michael was comfortably situated on the overstuffed, chintz-covered couch in the living room. A dark green chenille throw kept him warm and a feathered pillow cradled his head.

  Few people knew her phone number, which meant only family or close friends called, and of course she always knew the caller’s identity. She answered it on the third ring, not at all concerned that the noise would disturb Michael. She had placed him in a healing sleep that would keep him in a restful slumber for the next couple of hours.

  “Hello, Sarina,” she said with a smile, pleased and not really surprised to hear from her sister. “You are on your honeymoon, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, but Dagon and I grew concerned when we discovered that the car you borrowed was returned,” Sarina said anxiously. “I thought it best to call and make certain everything was all right.”

  Sarina possessed strong magical powers: she excelled in the ability of sight, seeing and knowing far more than anyone could dream possible. Tempest, however, possessed power that went far beyond the extraordinary, and there were few if any who could match her skills. She could block spells, remove any spell, cast spells and prevent any magical skills from being performed on her, which was why Sarina was calling. She sensed something was amiss, but could not determine the exact cause.

  Tempest spoke truthfully, though omitted certain facts. “The weather proved too much for my inadequate driving skills. I thought it best to return the car and proceed home as quickly and expediently as possible.”

  “A wise choice,” Sarina assured her. “I was worried about you, but Dagon reminded me that you can take care of yourself. Still, I could not help but recall my vision.”

  The vision was the reason Tempest kept Michael’s presence to herself. Sarina had predicted the return of the man Tempest had once loved and who with a mighty spell she had sent away to linger in the void. Time drew near for his return and a second chance, but would the once powerful warlock learn his lesson and succeed in disarming her spell, or would he revert to his old ways and once again call on the dark side to free him?

  “Tempest?” Sarina sounded concerned. “Is everything all right?”

  Tempest spoke with a depth of wisdom that not many understood. “It is as it should be.”<
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  Sarina understood perfectly, though her loving concern remained obvious. “I will phone in a few days.”

  “See to your new husband,” Tempest scolded playfully. “I have work to do.”

  “I will phone, take care,” were her parting words.

  Tempest shook her head, smiled and set out to tackle the dishes. She could very well clean up the kitchen with a wave of her hand, and on many occasions did, but there were times she wished to think, and busy hands gave way to clearer thoughts.

  She grabbed a white bib apron from a drawer and slipped it over her head, her thoughts as busy as her hands, as she tied the apron strings behind her back and proceeded to clean away the dishes...and think.

  Sarina was worried; the forest fairies were worried; Sydney Wyrrd, her former student and dear friend, was worried. And she? She knew nothing would prevent the inevitable. With her own words she had sealed her fate and had no choice but to confront it. But was Michael that predicted fate? Would he set the events in motion that would lead to the ultimate confrontation of darkness and light?

  She shivered at the thought. Time would tell and time was what she had right now with Michael. She would come to know him, understand him and determine for herself if he was her fate.

  Her own identity she would safely guard, forcing her to abandon some of her magic for the time being, though her rituals she would never forsake. She would not take the chance of stirring his memories; those were his to recall, if indeed he possessed them at all. Time would tell, and time was plentiful.

  When she finished cleaning the kitchen she took Michael’s clothes to his room and arranged the few garments in the drawers and closet. She had left briefs, worn jeans, a faded navy sweatshirt and white socks that had seen better days in the living room on a chair so that when he woke he could dress.

  She stood back, wicker basket in hand, and surveyed the contents of the open drawers and closet. His meager stock of clothing would simply not do. She placed the basket on the blue and purple tweed rug near the door and turned her attention to the open closet. She thought a moment, determining what clothing would best suit him and with a wave of her hand filled the small space with two pairs of blue and black jeans, three pairs of wool trousers—one a light gray, one a smoky gray—and the third black. Another hand wave produced four cotton shirts—one black with a thin gray stripe, a solid black, a solid light gray and a solid white one. She added a black wool jacket and a black leather bomber style jacket. Shoes came next—a pair of casual black leather shoes, black leather boots, dark-brown work-boots and of course slippers, which would be the only ones he could presently wear. But then it would appear odd if she had men’s clothing and no shoes, only slippers.

  She then turned her attention to the drawers, filling the spaces with wool, knit and cashmere sweaters, keeping the colors to gray, black and white, though she added a navy blue and a solid tan. Sweatshirts were next and they were kept plain and simple, though she thought red would suit him so she added the color for her own curiosity. Socks followed, then white and black T-shirts, and as she waved a finger to add underwear, she stopped.

  However would she explain having men’s underwear and new briefs at that, to him, but then his three pairs of well-worn briefs would never do. She crooked her finger and added the briefs, throwing in a couple of grays, blacks and reds. She would worry about an explanation later.

  A snap of her fingers closed the drawers, and as she was about to close the closet door she paused, thought a moment, nodded as if her decision was made, pointed her finger to an empty hanger, and suddenly there hung a long, black velvet bathrobe.

  She smiled and closed the closet door with a flick of her finger and picking up the basket, she went downstairs.

  Now as she chopped and sliced vegetables to be added later to the beef vegetable soup that simmered on the stove she wondered where she had put that old crutch that still looked much like the branch tree it had been carved from.

  With a concentrated thought and a wave of her hand the old crutch glided casually into the room to lean against the door frame.

  “I’m hallucinating or dreaming while awake.”

  Tempest jumped, startled by Michael’s unexpected presence behind her. He should have slept at least another thirty minutes. He was dressed in the clothes she had left for him, and his hair had been made presentable with a rake of his fingers.

  He shook his head as if not believing his own words. “I could have sworn I saw a strange-shaped tree branch float past the living room door while I was dressing.”

  “Must be those pain pills,” Tempest suggested eagerly.

  Michael rubbed at his chin. “I don’t remember taking any. I don’t even remember lying down on the couch.”

  “You couldn’t keep your eyes open,” she assured him with a firm nod.

  “I do remember growing sleepy.”

  “You needed your rest.” And quick as a wink she changed the subject. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  He hobbled over to her. “Sounds good, but it’s time for me to pitch in and help.”

  His dark eyes were soft, his stance relaxed, his manner unguarded. Evidently he wasn’t fully roused from his healing sleep since normally his intense dark eyes, rigid stance and insufferable manner warned people to keep a distance, a safe distance from him. She liked this agreeable and somewhat vulnerable man that stood before her offering his help.

  “Have your coffee first and then you can help.”

  “Promise?” he asked softly.

  She liked the way his mouth took control of that one word and made it sound like an erotic whisper. But then the possibilities that word held were endlessly suggestive, and of course once a promise was made it must be kept.

  She answered just as softly. “Promise.”

  He raised his hand, his fingers moving slowly toward her face and she found herself holding her breath. When he suddenly jumped with a start, his eyes grew wide and he grabbed for the edge of the counter to prevent himself from falling.

  “What the hell?”

  Tempest didn’t have to turn around to see the cause of his astonished reaction. She spotted the culprit sitting behind him on the floor; though explaining to him was another matter.

  She turned an unsurprised glance at the shadow on the wall behind her. It was a huge bear, his paw extended as if ready to attack. She turned back to Michael and pointed behind him. “My cat Bear.”

  Michael eased himself around to look at a black cat of average size licking his paw.

  “He thinks he’s a bear and unfortunately when he casts a shadow he resembles one, which enforces his mistaken belief.”

  Michael stared at the cat that had stopped licking his paw and sat staring back at him with large bright-green eyes. The animal seemed to be sizing him up and after several silent minutes passed, the cat simply walked past him without so much as a purr or a hiss and went straight to Tempest, rubbing himself in and around her legs with a contented purr.

  He could live with the obvious snub, though he was surprised. Animals usually took easily to him. He had been the one that had always fed and cared for the cats on the ship. What he couldn’t understand was what had caused his shadow—not the size of it, but the shadow in general. There was no sufficient light to produce a shadow of any size. So where did it come from?

  “Let me get you coffee,” Tempest offered—anything to change the subject.

  “I can get it myself,” he said. “Where do you keep the mugs?”

  Tempest pointed to the cabinet right behind him. She sensed his misgivings with her explanation, and the healing spell had almost dissipated, returning him to his usual guarded self.

  Michael filled his mug and turned to hobble over to the table when he stopped.

  Tempest caught his line of vision and winced. He focused on the crutch. However would she explain?

  But then he hadn’t asked—yet.

  She walked over to where it rested against the wall and picked it
up to take over to Michael. “It’s old, but sturdy. I thought perhaps it would assist you in getting around.”

  He looked at it oddly and seemed reluctant to take it.

  She placed it against the wall. “It’s here if you need it.”

  He nodded and took a seat at the table. It was time he learned who he was dealing with here. She was a stranger and a strange woman at that. She was congenial, helpful, caring and sincere, but she was also mysterious. How could a woman who lived alone, obviously out in the middle of nowhere, open her home to a man without concern for her own safety? Did she know something he didn’t? And if so, what was the secret that made her feel safe enough to offer a strange man her home while he recovered?

  It was simple enough as to where he would start. “Tell me about yourself, Tempest. We’re going to be spending enough time together between this broken ankle and the snowstorm. I’d like to know who I’m cohabitating with.”

  Tempest returned to cutting the vegetables while Bear decided to curl in a ball on the rug by the stove. She had anticipated his interest in her and was prepared, though she doubted he was prepared for her answer.

  “I am independently wealthy and do pretty much as I please.”

  “Damn it, woman, what is the matter with you!” he said, his voice sharp and agitated. “Are you nuts?”

  “No, I’m perfectly sane,” she answered calmly.

  Her answer brought a gruff laugh from him. “That’s a debatable issue.”

  “Why? Because I’m honest?”

  “Being honest isn’t always advisable.”

  “Why would that be?” she asked, scooping up a pile of sliced carrots and dropping them into the pot of bubbling beef soup.

  He cupped his coffee mug in one hand, and Tempest couldn’t help but notice the length and strength of his fingers, and the few scars that crisscrossed over his knuckles. Life had obviously been a battle for him, leaving him not only physically scarred but emotionally scarred as well and giving him a good reason not to trust anyone, especially a complete stranger.

  “Common sense,” he snapped, “which you know nothing of.”