Pierce tossed aside the pencil. Ryan Swan was making him uneasy. He would go downstairs and work until his mind was clear. It was then he heard her scream.
***
Ryan undressed carelessly. Temper always made her careless. Parlor tricks, she thought furiously and pulled down the zipper of her skirt. Show people. She should be used to their orchestrations by now.
She remembered a meeting with a well-known comedian the month before. He had tried out a twenty-minute routine on her before he had settled down to discuss plans for a guest appearance on a Swan Production presentation. All the business with the Tarot cards had been just a show, designed to impress her, she decided and kicked off her shoes. Just another ego trip for an insecure performer.
Ryan frowned as she unbuttoned her blouse. She couldn’t agree with her own conclusions. Pierce Atkins didn’t strike her as an insecure man—on stage or off. And she would have sworn he had been as surprised as she when she had turned over that card. Ryan shrugged out of her blouse and tossed it over a chair. Well, he was an actor, she reminded herself. What else was a magician but a clever actor with clever hands?
She remembered the look of his hands on the black marble chess pieces, their leanness, their grace. She shook off the memory. Tomorrow she would get his name on that contract and drive away. He had made her uneasy; even before the little production with the cards, he had made her uneasy. Those eyes, Ryan thought and shivered. There’s something about his eyes.
It was simply that he had a very strong personality, she decided. He was magnetic and yes; very attractive. He’d cultivated that, just as he had no doubt cultivated the mysterious air and enigmatic smile.
Lightning flashed, and Ryan jolted. She hadn’t been completely honest with Pierce: storms played havoc with her nerves. Intellectually, she could brush it aside, but lightning and thunder always had her stomach tightening. She hated the weakness, a primarily feminine weakness. Pierce had been right; Bennett Swan had wanted a son. Ryan had gone through her life working hard to make up for being born female.
Go to bed, she ordered herself. Go to bed, pull the covers over your head and shut your eyes. Purposefully, she walked over to draw the drapes. She stared at the window. Something stared back. She screamed.
Ryan was across the room like a shot. Her damp palms skidded off the knob. When Pierce opened the door, she fell into his arms and held on.
“Ryan, what the hell’s going on?” He would have drawn her away, but the arms around his neck were locked tight. She was very small without her heels. He could feel the shape of her body as she pressed desperately against him. Through concern and curiosity, Pierce experienced a swift and powerful wave of desire. Annoyed, he pulled her firmly away and held her arms.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“The window,” she managed, and would have been back in his arms again if he hadn’t held her off. “At the window by the bed.”
Setting her aside, he walked to it. Ryan put both hands to her mouth and backed into the door, slamming it.
She heard Pierce’s low oath as he drew up the glass and reached outside. He pulled in a very large, very wet black cat. On a moan, Ryan slumped against the door.
“Oh, God, what next?” she wondered aloud.
“Circe.” Pierce set the cat on the floor. She shook herself once, then leaped onto the bed. “I didn’t realize she was outside in this.” He turned to look at Ryan. If he had laughed at her, she would never have forgiven him. But there was apology in his eyes, not amusement. “I’m sorry. She must have given you quite a scare. Can I get you a brandy?”
“No.” Ryan let out a long breath. “Brandy doesn’t do anything for acute embarrassment.”
“Being frightened is nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Her legs were still shaking, so she stayed propped against the door. “You might warn me if you have any more pets.” Making the effort, she managed a smile. “That way, if I wake up with a wolf in bed with me, I can shrug it off and go back to sleep.”
He didn’t answer. As she watched, his eyes drifted slowly down her body. Ryan became aware she wore only a thin silk teddy. She straightened bolt upright against the door. But when his eyes came back to hers, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her breath had started to tremble before he took the first step toward her.
Tell him to go! her mind shouted, but her lips wouldn’t form the words. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. When he stopped in front of her, her head tilted back so that the look continued to hold. She could feel her pulse hammer at her wrists, at her throat, at her breast. Her whole body vibrated with it.
I want him. The knowledge stunned her. I’ve never wanted a man the way I want him. Her breath was audible now. His was calm and even. Slowly, Pierce took his finger to her shoulder and pushed aside the strap. It fell loosely on her arm. Ryan didn’t move. He watched her intensely as he brushed aside the second strap. The bodice of the teddy fluttered to the points of her breasts and clung tenuously. A careless movement of his hand would have it falling to her feet. She stood transfixed.
Pierce lifted both hands, pushing the hair back from her face. He let his fingers dive deep into it. He leaned closer, then hesitated. Ryan’s lips trembled apart. He watched her eyes shut before his mouth touched hers.
His lips were firm and gentle. At first they barely touched hers, just tasted. Then he lingered for a moment, keeping the kiss soft. A promise or a threat; Ryan wasn’t certain. Her legs were about to buckle. In defense, she curled her hands around his arms. There were muscles, hard, firm muscles that she wouldn’t think of until much later. Now she thought only of his mouth. He was barely kissing her at all, yet the shock of the impact winded her.
Degree by aching degree he deepened the kiss. Ryan’s fingers tightened desperately on his arms. His mouth brushed over hers, then came back with more pressure. His tongue feathered lightly over hers. He only touched her hair, though her body tempted him. He drew out every ounce of pleasure with his mouth alone.
He knew what it was to be hungry—for food, for love, for a woman—but he hadn’t experienced this raw, painful need in years. He wanted the taste of her, only the taste of her. It was at once sweet and pungent. As he drew it inside him, he knew there would come a time when he would take more. But for now her lips were enough.
When he knew he had reached the border between backing away and taking her Pierce lifted his head. He waited for Ryan to open her eyes.
Her green eyes were darkened, cloudy. He saw that she was as stunned as she was aroused. He knew he could take her there, where they stood. He had only to kiss her again, had only to brush aside the brief swatch of silk she wore. But he did neither. Ryan’s fingers loosened, then her hands dropped away from his arms. Saying nothing, Pierce moved around her and opened the door. The cat leaped off the bed to slip through the crack before Pierce shut it behind him.
Chapter 3
By morning the only sign of the storm was the steady drip of water from the balcony outside Ryan’s bedroom window. She dressed carefully. It was important that she be perfectly poised and collected when she went downstairs. It would have been easier if she could have convinced herself that she had been dreaming—that Pierce had never come to her room, that he had never given her that strange, draining kiss. But it had been no dream.
Ryan was too much a realist to pretend otherwise or to make excuses. A great deal of what had happened had been her fault, she admitted as she folded yesterday’s suit. She had acted like a fool, screaming because a cat had wanted in out of the rain. She had thrown herself into Pierce’s arms wearing little more than shattered nerves. And lastly and most disturbing she had made no protest. Ryan was forced to concede that Pierce had given her ample time to object. But she had done nothing, made no struggle, voiced no indignant protest.
Maybe he had hypnotized her, she thought grimly as she brushed her hair into order. The way he had looked at her, the way her mind had gone blank . . . With a sound of fru
stration, Ryan tossed the brush into her suitcase. You couldn’t be hypnotized with a look.
If she was to deal with it, she first had to admit it. She had wanted him to kiss her. And when he had, her senses had ruled her. Ryan clicked the locks on the suitcase, then set it next to the door. She would have gone to bed with him. It was a cold, hard fact, and there was no getting around it. Had he stayed, she would have made love with him—a man she had known for a matter of hours.
Ryan drew a deep breath and gave herself a moment before opening the door. It was a difficult truth to face for a woman who prided herself on acting with common sense and practicality. She had come to get Pierce Atkins’s name on a contract, not to sleep with him.
You haven’t done either yet, she reminded herself with a grimace. And it was morning. Time to concentrate on the first and forget the second. Ryan opened the door and started downstairs.
The house was quiet. After peeking into the parlor and finding it empty, she continued down the hall. Though her mind was set on finding Pierce and completing the business she had come for, an open door to her right tempted her to stop. The first glance drew a sound of pleasure from her.
There were walls—literally walls—of books. Ryan had never seen so many in a private collection, not even her father’s. Somehow she knew these books were more than an investment, they were read. Pierce would know each one of them. She walked into the room for a closer look. There was a scent of leather and of candles.
The Unmasking of Robert-Houdin, by Houdini; The Edge of the Unknown, by Arthur Conan Doyle; Les Illusionnistes et Leurs Secrets. These and dozens of other books on magic and magicians Ryan expected. But there was also T. H. White, Shakespeare, Chaucer, the poems of Byron and Shelley. Scattered among them were works by Fitzgerald, Mailer and Bradbury. Not all were leather bound or aged and valuable. Ryan thought of her father, who would know what each of his books cost, down to the last dollar and who had read no more than a dozen in his collection.
He has very eclectic taste, she mused as she wandered the room. On the mantelpiece were carved, painted figures she recognized as inhabitants of Tolkien’s Middle Earth. There was a very modern metal sculpture on the desk.
Who is this man? Ryan wondered. Who is he really? Lyrical, fanciful, with hints of a firm realist beneath. It annoyed her to realize just how badly she wanted to discover the full man.
“Miss Swan?”
Ryan swung around to see Link filling the doorway. “Oh, good morning.” She wasn’t certain if his expression was disapproving or if it was simply her impression of his unfortunate face. “I’m sorry,” she added. “Shouldn’t I have come in here?”
Link lifted his massive shoulders in a shrug. “He would have locked it if he wanted you to stay out.”
“Yes, of course,” Ryan murmured, not certain if she should feel insulted or amused.
“Pierce said you can wait for him downstairs after you’ve had breakfast.”
“Has he gone out?”
“Running,” Link said shortly, “He runs five miles every day.”
“Five miles?” But Link was already turning away. Ryan dashed across the room to keep up.
“I’ll make your breakfast,” he told her.
“Just coffee—tea,” she corrected, remembering. She didn’t know what to call him but realized that she would soon be too breathless from trying to keep pace with him to call him anything. “Link.” Ryan touched his arm, and he stopped. “I saw your work on the piano last night.” He was looking at her steadily, without any change of expression. “I hope you don’t mind.” He shrugged again. Ryan concluded he used the gesture often in place of words. “It’s a beautiful melody,” she continued. “Really lovely.”
To her astonishment, he blushed. Ryan hadn’t thought it possible for a man of his size to be embarrassed. “It’s not finished,” he mumbled, with his wide, ugly face growing pinker.
Ryan smiled at him, touched. “What is finished is beautiful. You have a wonderful gift.”
He shuffled his feet, then mumbled something about getting her tea and lumbered off. Ryan smiled at his retreating back before she walked to the dining room.
Link brought her toast, with a grumble about her having to eat something. Ryan finished it off dutifully, thinking of Pierce’s remark about face value. If nothing else came of her odd visit, she had learned something. Ryan didn’t believe she would ever again make snap decisions about someone based on appearance.
Though she deliberately loitered over the meal, there was still no sign of Pierce when Ryan had finished. Reluctance to brave the lower floor again had her sipping at cold tea and waiting. At length, with a sigh, she rose, picked up her briefcase and headed down the stairs.
Someone had switched on the lights, and Ryan was grateful. The room wasn’t brilliantly illuminated; it was too large for the light to reach all the corners. But the feeling of apprehension Ryan had experienced the day before didn’t materialize. This time she knew what to expect.
Spotting Merlin standing in his cage, she walked over to him. The door of the cage was open, so she stood cautiously to the side as she studied him. She didn’t want to encourage him to perch on her shoulder again, particularly since Pierce wasn’t there to lure him away.
“Good morning,” she said, curious as to whether he’d talk to her when she was alone.
Merlin eyed her a moment. “Buy you a drink, sweetie?”
Ryan laughed and decided Merlin’s trainer had an odd sense of humor. “I don’t fall for that line,” she told him and bent down until they were eye to eye. “What else can you say?” she wondered out loud. “I bet he’s taught you quite a bit. He’d have the patience for it.” She grinned, amused that the bird seemed to be listening attentively to her conversation. “Are you a smart bird, Merlin?” she demanded.
“Alas, poor Yorick!” he said obligingly.
“Good grief, the bird quotes Hamlet.” Shaking her head, Ryan turned toward the stage. There were two large trunks, a wicker hamper and a long, waist-high table. Curious, Ryan set down her briefcase and mounted the stairs. On the table was a deck of playing cards, a pair of empty cylinders, wine bottles and glasses and a pair of handcuffs.
Ryan picked up the playing cards and wondered fleetingly how he marked them. She could see nothing, even when she held them up to the light. Setting them aside, she examined the handcuffs. They appeared to be regulation police issue. Cold, steel, unsympathetic. She searched the table for a key and found none.
Ryan had done her research on Pierce thoroughly. She knew there wasn’t supposed to be a lock made that could hold him. He had been shackled hand and foot and stuffed into a triple-locked steamer trunk. In less than three minutes he had been out, unmanacled. Impressive, she admitted, still studying the cuffs. Where was the trick?
“Miss Swan.”
Ryan dropped the handcuffs with a clatter as she spun around. Pierce stood directly behind her. But he couldn’t have come down the stairs, she thought. She would have heard, or certainly seen. Obviously, there was another entrance to his workroom. And how long, she wondered, had he been standing and watching? He was doing no more than that now while the cat busied herself by winding around his ankles.
“Mr. Atkins,” she managed in a calm enough voice.
“I hope you slept well.” He crossed to the table to join her. “The storm didn’t keep you awake?”
“No.”
For a man who had just run five miles, he looked remarkably fresh. Ryan remembered the muscles in his arms. There was strength in him, and obviously stamina. His eyes were very steady, almost measuring, on hers. There was no hint of the restrained passion she had felt from him the night before.
Abruptly, Pierce smiled at her, then gestured with his hand. “What do you see here?”
Ryan glanced at the table again. “Some of your tools.”
“Ah, Miss Swan, your feet are always on the ground.”
“I like to think so,” she returned, annoyed. “What shoul
d I see?”
He seemed pleased with her response and poured a small amount of wine into a glass. “The imagination, Miss Swan, is an incredible gift. Do you agree?”
“Yes, of course.” She watched his hands carefully. “To a point.”
“To a point.” He laughed a little and showed her the empty cylinders. “Can there be restrictions on the imagination?” He slipped one cylinder inside the other. “Don’t you find the possibilities of the power of the mind over the laws of nature interesting?” Pierce placed the cylinders over the wine bottle, watching her.
Ryan was frowning at his hands now. “As a theory,” she replied.
“But only a theory.” Pierce slipped one cylinder out and set it over the wineglass. Lifting the first cylinder, he showed her that the bottle remained under it. “Not in practice.”
“No.” Ryan kept her eyes on his hands. He could hardly pull anything off right under her nose.
“Where’s the glass, Miss Swan?”
“It’s there.” She pointed to the second cylinder.
“Is it?” Pierce lifted the tube. The bottle stood under it. With a sound of frustration, Ryan looked at the other tube. Pierce lifted it, revealing the partially filled glass. “They seem to have found the theory more viable,” he stated and dropped the cylinders back in place.
“That’s very clever,” she said, irritated that she had stood inches away and not seen the trick.
“Would you care for some wine, Miss Swan?”
“No, I . . .”