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He…he looked exactly like Teague Ellis. How could it be? And yet…
She’d seen pictures of Teague often enough. The sexy, bad-tempered mouth, the wavy black hair that fell into deep-set, deep-blue eyes. She’d never forget the scruffy animal glamour—like James Dean, she’d thought. James Dean drawn in a palette of devil-black and bedroom-blue.
And oh, those eyes…those eyes said the boy had known pain and would know, in turn, how to inflict it.
But, in the space of a couple of seconds, she came to her senses. The man in front of her smiled, and the hypnotic vision shifted to something more prosaic. An eerie, but coincidental, resemblance. Similar height, similar coloring…and the rest was the product of overactive nerves and the haunting power of this place.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. His voice was cultured and deep. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He moved toward the pebbled edge of the stream. As he bent over to help retrieve the wildflowers she’d dropped, he looked up at her and smiled, the sun beaming straight into his amazing blue eyes. “I walked in just now. My car broke down a little way down the road, and I was looking for a telephone.”
She smiled back, feeling finally returning to her fingertips. Not Teague, of course not. How could she have been so idiotic?
For one thing, Teague had been nineteen the night he disappeared. This man must be nearly thirty, though that sexy mouth and brooding eyes certainly gave his looks the gut-kick virility of a hot-blooded teenager.
“You didn’t startle me,” she lied, hurrying to pick up the rest of her flowers before the stream carried them away. “Or rather, it’s just that I thought I was alone.”
“Yes.” He turned and scanned the dusty, broken buildings. “This place could make you feel you were all alone in the whole world, couldn’t it? I could tell right away I wasn’t going to find a phone, but I couldn’t resist the urge to explore. It’s fascinating.”
She nodded, pleased that he seemed sensitive to the atmosphere—and that he didn’t find it depressing or ugly. She’d always thought the intense solitude was one of Silverton’s charms. It was a good place to think things over.
“I’m afraid there’s never been a single telephone in the town of Silverton,” she said. “The mine closed up at least ten years before it was invented.”
He handed her the flowers. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “Well, I guess I’d better start hiking back, then.”
He smiled again, and the smile was so open and friendly that his resemblance to Teague Ellis faded even further. You could tell from Teague’s picture that he had rarely smiled, and when he had it probably had possessed a sinister, wolfish quality.
“Maybe,” the man who wasn’t Teague said, “you’d be willing to point me in the direction of the nearest town that isn’t a ghost town.”
She hesitated just a second. She could almost hear Trish now, ordering her not to be naive. You couldn’t go giving a man a lift in your car just because he was handsome, wore an expensive suit and had a nice smile. Bad guys didn’t come equipped with neon signs that said Danger. Murderers and thieves sometimes looked exactly like bankers and lawyers.
Still, if this man had wanted to harm her, couldn’t he have done it already? If he wanted to bash her over the head and steal her earrings, or toss her down in the chilly stream and ravish her, there certainly wasn’t anyone in Silverton to stop him.
After sharing a deserted ghost town with him, would letting him into her car really be so much more dangerous?
“The nearest gas station is in Enchantment,” she said. “That’s only about ten miles from here. I’d be glad to give you a ride.”
He tilted his head with a well-bred diffidence. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way.”
“It’s not out of my way at all. I live in Enchantment.” She transferred the flowers to her left arm and held out her hand. “By the way, I’m Celia Brice—” she looked down at the flowers “—wildflower enthusiast.”
His handshake was strong and warm, but entirely civilized and respectful. There was really no reason for Celia to start shivering.
The spring wind must have decided to turn cool, as it sometimes did up here in the mountains. Of course it didn’t help that she was standing ankle deep in a running brook.
Or that this was the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
“Patrick Torrance,” he said, letting go of her hand at the perfect moment. Obviously he wasn’t harboring a single, solitary, ravish-related thought. “And I would be very grateful for a ride into Enchantment. I was actually on my way there when the car broke down.”
“You were? Why?”
She hadn’t meant to sound so astonished. But Enchantment was a small town, and while it attracted its fair share of tourists, this man didn’t look like a tourist somehow. Enchantment’s other claim to fame was the birthing center, which was the best in the region. She paused, irrationally disliking that idea. He hadn’t mentioned having anyone with him. Surely he wouldn’t have left a pregnant wife back at the stranded car all alone.
But men sometimes did come to the birthing center alone, looking for their wives or their girlfriends, looking to mend a rift, to claim their unborn children…
No. She didn’t believe it. This man was too confident, too poised and powerful. He wasn’t the type who had to chase women anywhere. If anything, he was probably running away from one.
He chuckled softly. “You’re frowning—and you sounded pretty shocked. Is there something wrong with Enchantment? I had planned to spend a week or two there. Should I rethink?”
She flushed. “No. Of course not. It’s just that—Well, we’re not big and famous, not like Taos or Santa Fe. During the winter, when the ski slopes are active, things get pretty busy, but this is spring, and I just wondered why someone like you would—”
She broke off, embarrassed. She sounded as if she were fishing for personal information, which, she realized, she was. She couldn’t help it. She found him very attractive, and having him materialize before her like this had created an artificial sense of intimacy.
But artificial was the important word. What did she think—that Patrick Torrance was her own personal ghost, and now she could take him home and keep him?
“I’m sorry,” she said, fidgeting with the flowers. “I was just being nosy. Forget I said anything. Let me put on my shoes, and we’ll get started.”
He didn’t argue with her, or insist on spilling his plans. He obviously wasn’t used to explaining himself to anyone, least of all some kooky, barefoot woman he stumbled over in the local ghost town.
He followed her to the rocky bank of the stream, where she’d left her shoes. He watched as she sat down on a large, fallen tree trunk, which made the perfect bench, and began to brush the sand and leaves from the soles of her feet.
When she picked up her shoe, though, a simple white sneaker, she found that a spider had crawled into it. She tried to tip him out, but he crawled farther into the toe. She hadn’t seen his markings, so she hesitated to reach in and whisk him out with her fingers.
She shook the shoe. “Come on out, darn it.”
“Here,” Patrick Torrance said, coming closer and holding out his hand. “I’ll kill it for you.”
She looked up at him. “Kill him? Why would you kill him?”
He tilted his head, and then he smiled. “Did I say kill it? I mean to say I’d get it out for you. A purely harmless relocation.”
She smiled back and handed over the shoe. “Okay.” For a city boy, he caught on quickly. “Thanks.”
He had found a curved twig on the ground, and he maneuvered the point into the toe of her shoe. He had good hands. Gentle. He angled his wrist subtly a couple of times, with a minute scooping movement.
He tilted the shoe up to his face and peered into the shadows. Finally he eased his hand out, bringing the twig free, with the little spider clinging to it.
He walked over to a nearby patch of dead leaves—the ideal new home for a spider—and then he lay the twig and spider down, so deftly that the spider didn’t even scurry away. The little guy probably thought the whole move had been his own idea.
“Well done,” she said with a smile.
Then he came over and knelt on the ground before her. “Your slipper, my lady.”
Oh. Flushing, she found that she almost couldn’t let him do it. It was too personal, too oddly sexy. Besides, she wasn’t much for fancy clothes and shoes, and those sneakers had tramped many a mile around the dusty roads of Silverton and Enchantment.
Darn. She hoped her foot was clean enough. For the first time in her life, she wished she wore toenail polish.
But he was waiting, so she stuck out her foot. He was just kidding around. She was getting way too worked up. Maybe she shouldn’t have given up men after all—it had left her too susceptible to the slightest flirtation.
He took her calf in his hand, and shivers went all the way up her leg. She laughed a little, just out of nervousness. Just to distract him from those pale goose bumps under his fingers.
He slipped on the sneaker, then cupped his palm around her heel, rocking it to be sure the shoe was seated properly. Then he pulled gently on the tongue, took the laces between his fingers and tied a quick, nimble bow.
He met her gaze. “Why, it fits perfectly,” he said, smiling in a way that crinkled the edges of those remarkable eyes.
Oh, dear. She definitely should not have given up men. It made you kind of crazy.
Still smiling, he stood, and he held out his hand.
“And now,” he said, laughter gilding the edges of his pleasant voice, “If your pumpkin is waiting, maybe you could take me with you to the land of Enchantment.”
Celia sighed. Oh, heck, why fight it? Whoever Patrick Torrance was, and whatever he was here to do, wasn’t all that important, was it? She knew he had laughing eyes and gentle hands. And she knew that the moment she’d laid eyes on him, even when she still thought he was a ghost, she had been washed with an attraction more intense than any she’d ever felt.
She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. They stood there a minute, just smiling at each other. Something warm and golden moved inside her.
He’d be here a week, he’d said. Or two. Two weeks of reckless magic—and then the clock would strike midnight.
Oh, it was insane to even consider it—it was completely unlike her. Trish would have a fit. And besides, technically Patrick Torrance hadn’t even asked.
But he would. He felt the magic, too. It was in the warm touch of his fingers. It was in the surprised sparkle of his eyes. Oh, yes, he would ask.
And maybe, just maybe, she would say yes. Because sometimes even two weeks of magic was better than none at all.
THE CLINIC WAS OPEN ONLY half a day on Saturdays, unless one of the mothers was in labor. This Saturday was slow, so Trish had decided to give the windows of the reception area a thorough spring-cleaning. The clinic had a good professional cleaning crew, of course, but Trish had her own standards.
Cloth and vinegar solution in hand, she knelt on the sofa cushions and rubbed at the front multipaned window, giving each of the rectangles special attention. The cleaning crew sometimes ignored the edges.
Through the shining window, she could see the front parking lot, where a couple of cars sat, drowsing under the spring sunlight that filtered through the pines.
After a few minutes, Celia’s silly little Volkswagen Bug pulled in. Celia leaped out and executed a happy twirl in a shaft of light, arms outstretched as if she wanted to gather in the spring day and give it a hug.
Trish’s hand stilled, and she watched with a deep, vicarious pleasure. Even at twenty-eight, even though she was well educated and smart and dealt with real problems in her patients every day, Celia was in many ways as innocent as a child.
She believed the whole world was as good and gentle as she was. She picnicked in the mountains alone at night, she picked herbs in ghost towns, she made wishes on Red Rock Bridge in the moonlight and expected them to come true. It worried Trish, but she could never find a way to stop her.
That was because Celia had never known anything but love and affection. Her physician father was a little arrogant, and her mother was just a touch subservient, but nothing truly wicked ever happened at the Brice household.
Celia’s brother lived in Seattle and her parents had recently moved to Santa Fe, but they all were in constant contact with letters, e-mails, phone calls and visits.
A happy family created a happy child, and the happy child became a happy woman. It was like a mathematical equation. And of course the opposite was just as inexorably true, as well.
Trish didn’t envy Celia, not really. But as she watched the young woman skip up the front walk as if someone had drawn a hop-scotch board on it, her waist-length hair dancing in the dappled sunlight, Trish couldn’t help the pang of…something…that tightened around her heart.
She couldn’t remember ever, ever feeling that light and full of joy.
“Trish!” Celia swept open the clinic door and blew in on a gust of spring sunshine. “I hoped you’d be here!”
Trish smiled. “Why? Did you want to help wash the windows?”
“No, I wanted to tell you about the wonderful, amazing thing that happened to me out at Silverton!”
Trish put the spray bottle down on the windowsill. “You went to Silverton alone again? Celia, you know how dangerous—”
“No lectures, please,” Celia said. She plopped onto her knees on the sofa beside Trish. “I’m fine, honestly. See? Completely unscratched. Virtue intact.” She grinned. “Unfortunately.”
Trish frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means I met the most marvelous man. His car broke down and he needed a ride. His name is Patrick Torrance.” She said the name on a sigh of delight. “Even you would approve of him, Trish. Not a scratch or dent in sight.”
Trish rolled her eyes. “For a psychologist, that’s a pretty dumb comment.” She picked up her spray bottle and moved to the next windowpane. “If you just met him this morning, you have no idea what the extent of his dents might be. He’ll probably turn out to be an emotional wreck, which of course you’ll find irresistible, and he’ll become your next pet project.”
But Celia had no intention of coming down to earth. She wrinkled her nose at Trish and smiled like the Cheshire cat.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, arranging her full blue cotton skirt around her knees. “The beauty of Patrick Torrance is that he’s just here for a week or two. He’s a tourist. On vacation. Temporary. Even if he had dents the size of golf balls on every inch of his psyche, which he doesn’t, I couldn’t turn him into a project. In two weeks, he’ll go right back where he came from.”
“Which is?”
Celia hesitated, plucking at her skirt. “I’m not exactly sure.”
“Oh, great.”
Celia sighed again. “Don’t be such a grump. He’s gorgeous and smart and funny and a gentleman. What does it matter where he comes from?”
“Well, if he comes straight from San Quentin, that would matter.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Or if he comes straight from his wife and three kids. That would matter.”
“He doesn’t.”
“The loony bin? An AA meeting? The unemployment line? Would any of that matter?”
Celia leaned her head back and smiled at the ceiling. “He doesn’t.”
“Celia, listen to me.” Trish was nervous now. She’d seen Celia make plenty of mistakes with her love life. She was always taking on hopeless cases, sure that she could mold them into better people. But her attitude had always been half Mother Teresa, half Florence Nightingale—and Trish had understood that Celia’s heart wasn’t really touched at all.
This was different. Trish knew what that sparkling smile, those waves of energy, those restless movements, meant. They meant that this time there was nothing maternal about it. Patrick Torrance had somehow, perhaps quite by accident, perhaps simply the lucky chemistry of giving off the perfect pheromones, had found the trigger that turned on an electric current inside the beautiful Celia Brice.
“Just think about it a little bit, that’s all I’m asking. Go slowly.” But Celia was hardly listening. She was still staring at the ceiling as if it were a night full of stars. “Celia, what exactly are you considering here?”
Celia brought her head back down. The dewy gleam in her blue eyes said it all. It seemed a shame even to try to break this bubble of joy.
“What are you considering?” she repeated.
“Nothing dangerous,” Celia said. “Honestly, Trish. Stop worrying so much. Just…I don’t know. A fling. A spring fling. A short, exciting two weeks of dinner and dancing and flirting and—”
“And?”
