In Her Rival's Arms

‘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.