‘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.
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
