In Her Rival's Arms. Alison RobertsЧитать онлайн книгу.
And that was just as exhilarating as knowing she was still capable of experiencing desire. These last weeks, alone in both the shop and the house, had been lonely. Stifling, even.
The challenge was irresistible.
‘You’re holding a carnelian crystal.’ She was pleased to find she could keep her tone pleasantly professional. If she gave him something concrete to dismiss maybe he would reveal his true motive for being there. ‘It’s considered to be a highly evolved mineral healer that can aid tissue regeneration. It enhances attunement with the inner self and facilitates concentration.’ She smiled politely. ‘It opens the heart.’
‘Really?’ He couldn’t help his sceptical tone. His own concentration had just been shot to pieces and he was still holding the stone.
Did some people really believe in magic?
Like they believed in love?
He released it to let it tumble back with its companions in the small wicker basket. He wasn’t one of them.
‘Excuse me.’ The teenage girls had given up on the essential oils. ‘What’s in all those big jars?’
‘They’re herbs.’
It was hard to turn away from the man and that was a warning Zanna needed to listen to. A few moments to collect herself was a blessing but the task was made more difficult because the girls were staring at the man behind her now, their eyes wide enough to confirm her own impression of how different he was.
‘Common ones like rosemary and basil,’ she added, to distract them. ‘And lots of unusual ones, like patchouli and mistletoe and quassia.’
Zanna never tired of looking at her aunt’s collection of antique glass containers. They took pride of place on wide, dark shelves behind the counter, the eccentric shapes and ornate stoppers adding to the mysterious promise of the jars’ contents. They had always been there. Part of her life ever since she’d arrived as a frightened young girl who had just lost both her parents. As grounding as being here, in the home she loved.
‘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