The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept) (7 page)

She sighed, her forehead wrinkled with worry. She hadn’t really speculated on what might happen once she sank the boat, simply assuming, she supposed now, that the island’s magic would take it from there and they would either fall in love or they wouldn’t. She hadn’t expected to feel awkward and nervous. She’d planned to be in complete control.

It was a miscalculation. A big one. She hadn’t factored in the possibility that Mr. Dunsmore would have a mind and a will and a few ideas of his own on how to proceed—now that he’d accepted the notion that he wasn’t going anywhere until Sunday.

The Fates were smiling on him. The nut case had a contingency plan. There was a way to get off the damned island before Sunday. All he had to do was to convince her to use it.

The big-bad-wolf routine was fun, and it had certainly made her jumpy, but ... well, people could get carried away on that stuff, he thought, recalling how tempted he’d been to dive into that tub of bubbles with her.

Acting out the homicidal maniac wouldn’t work either. She wasn’t afraid of him—she never had been. And if he were going to kill her, he’d have already done it down on the beach. The time was past for such splendid thoughts, though he couldn’t help but wonder if the investigator she’d hired had given her a straight line on who he was. The last person to cause him this much trouble had been a summer tutor his mother had hired to keep him occupied during his vacation from school. He’d been sixteen and ready to teach the world—and his mother—a thing or two about Payton Dunsmore IV.

He’d made a few mistakes in the beginning, but he’d known immediately that he liked calling the shots and that he didn’t like being crossed. He came to value loyalty and dedication in people, rather than words of love and devotion.

But that was neither here nor there, he decided, pushing his tall frame from a soft leather chair to fix himself another drink.

He’d showed himself through the rooms on the first floor. They were beautifully decorated, stuffed with antiques and, like the other unused rooms in the house, shrouded in dustcovers. Only Harriet’s bedroom and bath, the kitchen, and the library looked lived-in.

He liked the library. Books lining all four walls, circled by a catwalk, the large room felt close and cozy and friendly. Despite the copyright dates in some of the books and the number of first edition collectibles scattered throughout the shelves there was a ... youthfulness about the room, almost as if the words and wisdom contained within stayed endlessly young, waiting to appeal to any fresh, inquiring mind that happened by.

There were two huge mahogany desks, one positioned near each of the floor-to-ceiling windows to catch the light. The sound of his footsteps was muffled in a thick area rug, woven in warm hues of gold and russet. Soft brown leather wing chairs and ottomans were pulled close to the six-foot fireplace. It would be a homey room any season of the year, he imagined.

He rubbed the dull ache in his temples and paced. It could have been the Library of Congress and not a single volume would contain the answer to his present dilemma.

There had to be a way to get around her. Talking reason to a woman, sane or not, was a waste of breath. And Harriet was not only a woman, she was a willful and resolved woman. God help him, she was a woman with a cause, which meant she’d see her foolish scheme through to the end.

Thinking about it made his head hurt more. He needed to think clearly. The answer was most likely quite simple, if he could just get a handle on it. A rescue fire on the beach? Smoke signals? If there was a chance that someone on a passing cargo ship or ferry or tug or even a fishing boat would hear him, he could scream his lungs out for help.

“Damn the woman,” he said, sitting back down in a chair by the empty fireplace. What would induce her to abandon this madness, short of disaster, injury, or illness?

The tense throbbing in his forehead started to break up and scatter. His lips curled upward at the corners. A germ of an idea took root in his mind, then bloomed in a matter of seconds. Suddenly he was feeling much better.

“Mr. Dunsmore? Payton?” Harriet said a short while later, alarmed, having entered the library to find Payton sprawled out in a chair, a leg flung over one armrest, his face buried in the bend of his shirtsleeve. “What is it? Are you all right?” She hurried to his side.

“Do I look all right?” he asked, his voice weak, barely a whisper.

“No. You don’t. Are you ill? Is there something I can do for you? Are ... are you in pain?”

“Pain. Yes. Excruciating.” His arm fell away from his face in a listless fashion.

“Where? Where do you hurt, Payton?” she asked, gravely concerned.

He groaned. “Everywhere. All over. Head. Neck. Shoulders. Stomach. Legs.”

“Oh, my. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Do you have migraines, Mr. Dunsmore-ah-Payton?” she asked, her expression empathetic. “My mother had them occasionally. They were awful. And I haven’t fed you. When did you eat last?”

He had her now, he thought, inwardly chuckling. He waved his arm vaguely. “Breakfast?”

“Good, but that’s still been a while. It’s probably the stress and tension of all this,” she said, filled with guilt. She threw her thick braid back over her shoulder. “It would give anyone a headache.”

“Stomach too.”

“Oh. I am so sorry.” He opened his eyes and gave her a pitiful look. She wasn’t wearing her glasses again, he noted. Her eyes were big and warm with compassion; her brows bent with worry and remorse. She placed a comforting hand on his cheek, cool and soothing and caring. It almost blew his performance—she was truly distressed! “Would it help to lay down, do you think? That’s why I came looking for you. I had hoped all along that I wouldn’t have to go through with this. I didn’t even prepare a room for you. Was there, I mean, do you have a preference? There are plenty of rooms to choose from.”

He moaned and closed his eyes, as if making a decision would be too painful a process for his brain.

“Should go back,” he muttered. “See the hotel doctor.”

“I don’t have much, but I think I have something for your pain, and you can rest over here on the couch while I make up your bed,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard his suggestion. She eased his leg off the arm of the chair. “Do you think your stomach could tolerate a little soup or something?”

With a pathetic sigh, he allowed her to assist him to his feet. Taking small, old-man steps and leaning on her heavily—liking the strength beneath the softness of her—he shuffled over to the couch.

“There you go,” she said, a bit winded with the exertion. “Lay your head down now and rest. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Suite,” he mumbled when he guessed her to be close to the doorway.

“I’m sorry?” She came back to him, bending low to catch his words.

“Master suite.” It had been an impulsive choice on his part, but the more he thought about it, the better he liked it. If he couldn’t drum up enough symptoms to make her think he was dying, he could always wear her down by running her cute little behind off.

“Oh, yes. The master suite. Certainly. I’ll only be a minute.”

His eyes rolled heavenward as he mentally counted her steps to the door. “Water?”

“I missed that,” she said, coming back and bending low. She smelled like lilacs. “Can I get you something?”

He took a deep breath, filling his head with a scent of springtime. “Could I bother you for some water?”

“I was just going after some.” She patted his shoulder reassuringly. “You rest now. Think happy thoughts.”

Happy thoughts ... Lilacs. Bubbles. A long black braid sprouting flyaway curls. Pale, flushed naked skin. Fathomless dark eyes a man could get lost in. ... How come his doctor never prescribed happy thoughts?

Harriet rushed into the room moments later with a mild analgesic and a glass of water. She got to her knees and tended him with unselfish mercy.

“There,” she said, placing a cool, calming hand to his brow, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do. “I’ll have your bed made by the time those go to work and then you can go upstairs and, hopefully, sleep the rest of the pain away. I’ll have a nice supper ready when you wake up, and soon you’ll be right as rain again.”

His groaning grunt was a warning for her not to count on it.

“Can I get you anything before I go?”

A feeble shake of his head.

“I’ll hurry.”

He opened one eye to watch her go. “Cold,” he said, when she reached the door.

It was a good sixteen feet from the door to the couch. She crossed them patiently, bending at the waist to hear his newest complaint.

“I’m so cold,” he murmured.

“I’ll get you a blanket. Can I get you anything else while I’m at it?”

“No. No. Don’t want to be a bother. ...”

“It’s no bother, Mr. Duns—Payton,” she said softly. “I know that what I did is stressful to you. I’m the cause of your pain.”

No lie.

“Just ... the blanket,” he said, controlling his deep hardy voice to a sad little whine. “Please.”

“I’ll be right back.”

It’s written in stone, sweetheart, he thought, enjoying himself immensely. It was like payback for everything she’d done to him since the first time he’d heard her name.

He waited until she’d left the room this time and then raised his voice by a hair. “... ice ... pain.”

“Did you say something?” she asked, hurrying back into the room and over to the invalid.

“I ... I just thought that perhaps some ice ... a cool compress would lessen the pain.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea. I should have thought of it.” She started to leave and turned back. “Can you think of anything else that might help?”

“Not at the moment, no,” he uttered wearily. But he’d work on it.

He had a good solid list of demands by the time she returned, but she nursed him so gently and sympathetically that he simply couldn’t bring himself to use any of them. In truth, her diligent pampering was something new to him. It made him a little uncomfortable. Not to the extent that he couldn’t tolerate it, but certainly to the point where he could appreciate it—had he really been in need.

She left him warm and cool respectively, and wondering how long it would be before she called for help.

Payton’s sick headache was unfortunate, but nothing some rest and food wouldn’t cure, she was sure. Actually, it was a stroke of luck, she decided, tucking the sheets in at the foot of her parents’ bed.

She had no idea how he’d found out about her having been in prison, but discussing her conviction and incarceration wasn’t something she relished. It was behind her, and she wanted to forget it.

But no one seemed to want to let her forget. Potential employers wouldn’t hire her. Old friends couldn’t look her in the eye. Acquaintances stopped calling. Close companions asked about it constantly, thinking it best for her to vent her emotions, when forgetting would have been more therapeutic. Every time she turned around it was there, haunting her. It was as if she had a scarlet letter stitched on everything she wore.

And now Mr. Dunsmore—Payton—knew about it. The fact that he had the information wasn’t as disturbing as the thought that the knowledge would work at cross-purposes with the magic. Who could fall in love with a convicted felon?

It was a stiff blow to her scheme, no doubt about it. He was bound to ask about it again eventually, and she was bound to tell him the truth, because it was her nature. The optimist in her was beaten and threadbare, but she wanted to believe that there was still some way for her to overcome the black mark in his eyes.

She whipped her braid back over her shoulder with a shake of her head. It wasn’t her intention to spend the rest of her life defending herself against a crime she hadn’t committed in the first place. If Payton Dunsmore were any other man on earth, she wouldn’t even attempt an explanation. But she wanted her island. And she needed his help to keep it. Therefore, she would have to win his approval.

Between the last step into the foyer and the door of the library, she mustered a cheerful smile.

“Payton?” she called softly, thinking him asleep. He grunted. “Are you feeling any better?” A groan. “Your room is ready. Do you think you’d like to try and go upstairs? I think you’d be more comfortable there, but you can stay where you are if you’d like.”

“I think I can make it,” he whimpered, anxious to begin round two. “Would you ... Could I impose on you to help me a bit?”

“Of course,” she said graciously, hastening to his aid.

Lord, the man was big, and heavier than he appeared, she ruminated, staggering under his weight, saved from a good crushing when he righted himself and pulled her up closer to his body.

“I feel so weak,” he professed apologetically. “I can’t remember ever feeling worse.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, panting, taking another stair step. “I feel awful about this.”

“Not your fault,” he said, an accusing undertone in his voice. “How could you have known it would affect me like this?”

“I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.” She was too encouraging, and he smirked, his head above hers as she stooped to her task.

It was wonderful. He’d been wanting to touch her again, and he’d created the perfect happenstance to indulge his whims. When he wanted to discover if her hair was as smooth and soft as it looked, he brushed his hand across it. He gave in to the urge to ascertain exactly how well she’d fit in his arms, if he wrapped one around her waist and the other around her shoulders. He returned several times to see if the reaction he got when he rubbed the palm of his hand against her breasts was reflex ... or something else. But the most fun was waiting for opportunities to drop his hands to the soft, round counters of her bottom and to dally there until she could manage to brush him away. A cunning ruse. He was a genius.

“I’ve heard that headaches like this can last for days with some people,” she was saying, gasping for air. “But my mother’s never lasted for more than a few hours. She used to say it was the air here, that the fresh air sort of cleared the pain out of her head.”

He humphed dubiously. Air wasn’t going to cure him, unless it came in pressurized tanks, on a
boat.