Read an Excerpt
Serena's Magic
By Heather Graham OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1984 Heather E. Graham
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-0833-3
CHAPTER 1
The highway had become a continuous ribbon of gray and black. Justin blinked, trying to dispel the illusion. A bead of perspiration dripped from a dark thick brow into his eye, and he blinked furiously once more, then sighed. He hadn't planned to stop until he reached the town and the guesthouse, but he had no suicidal tendencies nor did he intend his own tired driving to possibly injure another person. Besides, his long legs seemed cramped as all hell, and despite the air conditioning blasting through the small sports car, the July sun was creating an uncomfortable heat.
He pulled off the road, cut the engine, and immediately stepped out of the driver's side to stretch his cramped limbs.
Hands on hips he viewed his surroundings. He stood on an embankment of high grass beside that endless ribbon of highway. He had been driving without a stop, except to fill the gas tank, since he had left New York City, and now he had begun to succumb to road mesmerization.
Actually, he thought with a deep, throaty chuckle that startled a few birds from the trees, he couldn't be more than a few miles from his destination—Salem. If he had just been able to hold out a few minutes more.
No, it felt too good to be out of the car, and the forestry that surrounded the road on either side seemed to lend a certain coolness to the oppressive July heat. And hell, there was no fire he had to get to. He was his own boss and therefore had all the time in the world. He shrugged a little ruefully to himself. The city had taught him to hurry; life was high-speed, spiral gear. And he had to admit he was a perfect candidate for the pace of the city. He was a bit of a workaholic—and when he wasn't working, he was still going, moving, doing.
Justin stretched once more and started to fold his legs back into the confines of the car, but then hesitated. His deep hazel eyes were caught by the movement and rustle of the maple and oak trees that grew densely along the side of the road. A breeze was lilting through the branches, and the gentle sway of the foliage was as mesmerizing as the road. A crooked grin split the strong line of his jaw. The eyes that had appeared so deep and intense were suddenly lit with a twinkling brilliance as he laughed at himself. I'm being compelled by those trees, he thought with a grimace. No, not by the trees, but by a need to relax, to feel the breeze or the touch of a leaf.
He had been driving barefoot; he reached into the car for a pair of leather sandals, then slammed the door shut and locked as he balanced himself with a hand on the roof of the car while he slid his feet into the sandals. Whistling softly, he strode around to the trunk, inserted the key, and popped it open to secure a small Playmate cooler. Then he started toward the trees and the certain area that had especially attracted his attention—a break in the trees that indicated a small footpath.
The trail was overgrown, obviously no longer still in use. It was cool beneath the sheltering leaves, and he could smell the earth and the greenery. There had to be a lake or lagoon within the forestry, he thought, to give the area its intensely fresh and crisp feeling despite the summer heat. Good place to jog, he thought almost mechanically, glad he had stopped driving because he would certainly return.
He followed the break in the trees, and as he had expected, the clearing portrayed a body of water, still and clear, reflecting the sun with a crystal brilliance like a bed of sparkling diamonds. His footsteps quickened until he reached the end of the trees, then he slowed, appreciating the view of the water and the tall grasses that grew to its edge, giving way to soft, sandy dirt. The breeze stirred suddenly, causing the grass to bend and dip as if in supplication, and seeming to kiss his forehead with coolness while lifting a thatch of dark hair from his brow. He dropped the cooler beside a tree and stripped his knit kelly sport shirt over his head to relish the coolness against a broad, heavily muscled chest. Then, like a kid at a watering hole, he whooped out a joyous cry and pelted into the water, sinewed calves and rock-hard thighs moving him at a wild, breakneck pace.
The water was actually cold. It hit his flesh with a delightful shock, and he swam steadily through it. Reaching the middle, he doubled and headed toward the bottom—it was no more than twenty-five feet deep—and was surprised and pleased to discover nothing but rocks or sand. No beer or soda cans—not even an old boot. The small pond was as clean and natural as the foliage that harbored it.
Minutes later he swam back to the shore, shivering slightly as the air hit his flesh, but loving the sensation. After all the heat, it was wonderful.
He walked a few feet from the water to sit beneath the tree that sheltered his cooler, He grimaced as his wallet creaked beneath him—he had forgotten he carried it in the back pocket of his cutoffs. He half rose, pulled out his wallet and a few waterlogged bills, and set them beside him on a large flat rock that seemed to be attracting a few rays of the sunshine that filtered through the trees. Then he dug a beer out of the cooler, popped it open, and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Damn, but it felt good to be alone. It felt especially good to be away from Denise.
He winced and closed his eyes at the unbidden thought. There wasn't a thing wrong with Denise. She was beautiful, sophisticated, intelligent—and one hell of a determined lover. A little too determined, he thought with a frown, bothered that he should be feeling any guilt. He had told her from the beginning that he didn't believe in marriage and was essentially a loner. And Denise, liberated woman that she claimed to be, assured him that she certainly didn't intend to marry either—why would she want to become some man's maid?
But she seemed a little too fond of his position, of the prestige that came with each of his acclaimed books.
Face it, Justin told himself with a certain amount of disgust, you're here just as much because of Denise as because of any desire to do thorough research.
Not just Denise, but my entire lifestyle.
Denise was so fond of the things he was coming to wish he could avoid. She loved the faculty lunches, the dinners, the cocktail parties. And she adored autograph parties. She was so gracious ... so gracious that he was sometimes sure that he could see the wheels of her mind turning within the emerald glitter of her eyes. Predatory eyes. She was a brilliant and cunning woman, certain that in claiming her own freedom, she would eventually bring him around to where he believed he needed her.
He lifted his beer can to the powder-blue sky and the liquid brilliance of the sun. "Keep shining like that," he assured the golden orb, "and you will convince me that I'm a country boy at heart!"
He dated other women, and he didn't hide the fact from Denise. She allowed him that freedom too, and that was a little of what bothered him. She should have been perfect: she was the toast of all his friends, and despite his wandering ways, he was well aware that she remained loyal. That too bothered him. It was all so calculated. No real emotion. Like he sometimes felt about her lovemaking. Well-planned, well-practiced mechanics. Anything to please.
He shrugged and sipped his beer. Maybe he should marry her. He could settle down and have two point five children and vacation on the Riviera every year. He was assured the presidency of the university in another ten years. Denise would never run to fat—she was too egotistical ever to do so. She would always be perfect, his house neat as a pin, his two point five children would wear clothing without a dot of dirt or hint of a wrinkle. Surely a man could meet a fate far worse than that.
No. He had been married before. For all of two years. To a woman just as beautiful and just as perfect. And from that relationship had come one good thing, a daughter who spent exactly one month with him every year, and then every other Christmas vacation.
It wasn't that he didn't believe in love, he simply didn't believe in love lasting. It began so beautifully, but time made caricatures of love; it became contorted, buried beneath jealousy, spite, and all those other things that raised their ugly heads as disagreements mounted steadily to shouting matches.
He finished his beer and smiled to himself. Nine out of ten times he blamed himself for the problems in his relationships. He was a man who needed space as well as being someone who didn't really know how to give. Mary and he had been a disaster from the start. They had married out of high school because she had been pregnant—ironically, she had lost the baby. The relationship had been shaky; but she had gotten pregnant again right away, and he had been bound to stay, bound to try. But the daughter who should have strengthened their love merely became a pathetic pawn in the shouting matches. Money had been their basic problem. He had been a struggling student himself in those days. And there had been a few too many older men around to take Mary to dinner when he couldn't or when he was studying. Maybe, he told himself, he had never forgiven her for accepting those invitations behind his back, for turning "dinners" into affairs.
Justin yawned and rested the back of his head against the tree. At the moment, he thought with a smile, he would give his eyeteeth for something uncomplicated. The pond was so wild and welcoming—and secluded. It should be shared, he thought. A wood nymph should slip out of the trees and he should wildly attack her—only to discover that she welcomed his touch and had provoked the attack.
He laughed aloud at his thoughts. This was Salem, he reminded himself dryly. Land of witches—not wood nymphs. And as dean of the Department of Clinical Psychology at one of New York State's most prestigious colleges, he was here to study the result of natural human phenomena—not crystal balls and spells and incantations.
But at that moment, it was more fun not to be Professor O'Neill. It was enjoyable to believe that the trees had created a little slice of heaven for him. He folded his long fingers and broad hands behind his head and sighed with that delicious feeling of being alone with the caress of the breeze, the feel of the dirt beneath him, and the freedom to laugh at his own ridiculous fantasies.
He slept, and then dreamed. But it was only when he awoke that he lived out a fantasy that became real.
And awaking the second time was even better. His arms were around his ivory witch; she slept peacefully upon his chest. He adjusted himself to stare down at her with a twisted smile easing the lines of strain about his eyes. She was warm and sweetly lovely as she lay against him, long fingers splayed over the dark curls on his chest. Chestnut hair, now dry and silky, tangled over his limbs.
She was unlike any woman he had ever known—completely natural, giving unselfconsciously, receiving with simple, unabashed pleasure. Nor was there anything of the hardened expert about her; he felt as if he had tapped a crystal innocence and found the depths of sensuality that lurked beneath the fragile shield.
Who the hell was she? he wondered. He had to know—he was so curious he almost woke her. But her lips were parted in a curving smile—he couldn't break her sleep. He had all the time in the world. And she must live near—how else could she appear at the pond with only a cloak?
The summer was beginning to look promising indeed.
He ran a finger over her face, noticed its softness, then its chill. Frowning, he eased her head to the ground, then walked the few feet to her cape to secure it protectively around her. He watched her for another moment with curious tenderness, then stood and stretched and slipped back into his cutoffs. He glanced around, and it occurred to him how dark it was getting. Thank God there was a full moon or he wouldn't be able to see his hand before his face. He paused for a moment, looking down at her, decided she was deeply asleep, and thought that he'd hurry back to the car for his huge lantern—he wanted a little light on the subject when she awoke and he quizzed her.
He walked around the pond this time, absently picked up the split bottles and the cooler, and stumbled back through the trail that had brought him.
Except that going back in the dark was a hell of a lot harder than coming had been.
He cursed himself for an idiot as he lost his way through the trees, muttering beneath his breath as leaves slapped his face. What a woodsman! he thought with a groan. But eventually he found the car—bright and shiny beneath the moonlight. He replaced the cooler and threw the garbage on the floor of the passenger seat, then scrounged around in the trunk until he found his massive flashlight.
Returning to the pond once more was a hell of a lot easier with the light. He began to wonder about her again as he walked, a little in awe of the whole situation. Women—no, he admitted fairly, not just women, but people—usually had motives. Most of the time, they wanted something.
That was part of what had been so unique. They had met, touched, and come together. The meeting was as unique as the woman. And as he had never been before, he was anxious to find out about her.
And he was anxious to hold her again. He was already wondering if anything could have been so damned good ... or had it just been the twilight, playing tricks upon his senses?
When he reached the pond again, he incredulously discovered that she was gone. Vanished. Without a trace.
He felt as if he were a madman—rushing about the place like an idiot, searching the foliage high and low, then standing there like a fool with his light trained upon the water.
She simply wasn't there. Not a sign of her. The entire interlude might not have been.
As he stared at the water, a horror engulfed him. What if she hadn't felt so wonderful about the experience? He didn't know a damned thing about her. She might be mentally unbalanced. She might have ...
He dropped the flashlight and dove into the water, surfaced, dove again. Over and over, until he had covered—as best he could in the darkness—the entire pond.
Then he got up to sit by the shoreline, feeling even more like an idiot—and more furious.
Now if he found her, he wanted to throttle her!
He panted to regain his breath after his efforts and finally puffed out an exasperated sigh. Incredible. It appeared now as if he sat before nothing more than a dark pond. Nothing could have happened here. His experience with a witch at twilight might have been a date with magic.
He stood with an impatient grumble. He didn't believe in magic—and his witch had been a flesh and blood woman. And he would find her even if it meant searching not just Salem, but all of Massachusetts.
Muttering disgustedly to himself, he started back for the car a second time. He found his way easily with the flashlight; but he felt uncomfortable because his clothes were sopping wet; his green Izod dripped on his cutoffs which in turn dripped on his sandals and his bare toes.
He was muttering as he drove into Salem—only to discover that he hadn't read his map well. The road he should have been on ran parallel to the one he had taken. He had to backtrack to find the inn, wondering all the while how the proprietress would greet a soaking wet guest.
But the smiling, middle-aged woman who answered the door merely clucked over his appearance, warning him that while July days were hot in Salem, the nights could become very cool. She ushered him into a warm parlor while promising hot coffee and towels. He had to duck to enter the parlor—the room was part of the original house and built with a low ceiling.
"You'll have to forgive a few idiosyncrasies, Dr. O'Neill," the woman offered with a cheerful smile. "We only let out three rooms, you know, and we don't operate like a regular guesthouse. Breakfast is promptly at eight, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. And I'd appreciate it if you would let me know when you intend to miss meals—but on the other hand, if you have a special preference, you let me know, and I'll get it on the table for you. I'm afraid your room has a bath but no shower, and you'll find a few other inconveniences—"
"Please!" Justin laughed. "I know all about the Golden Hawk—and that's why I'm here." He smiled. "If you'll just let me know what to call you, ma'am—"
"Oh! I'm Martha, Martha Heyer."
"Mrs. Heyer, I'll be as happy as a lark here, I assure you."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Serena's Magic by Heather Graham. Copyright © 1984 Heather E. Graham. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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