Do You Believe in Magic

chapter SEVEN



Thursday at five, Clay, Francie, Herb, and Bill Childress gathered in Herb’s office. “The operators in the computer room will call when Brenner hacks in,” Herb said. He pointed to the pile of deli sandwiches on his conference table. “Help yourselves. There are soft drinks on the credenza, but if you want coffee, I’ll get a carafe from the lunchroom.”

Nobody wanted coffee, and they all dug into the food. Conversation was nonexistent, which was just fine with Francie. She felt like she was still getting over seeing Clay at the Y. What a shock. No, several shocks. First, from literally running into him and feeling her own body zing to attention. Second, from all that barely clothed masculinity. Lord, have mercy, the man was as good-looking in shorts and a tank top as he was in a suit. Long legs, lean muscles, and a rangy build combined with black hair and silver eyes into a potent male presence. Last, from all the questions and teasing from her teammates she had to endure. Now, she just had to get through the evening.

They hadn’t been eating more than twenty minutes when Herb’s phone rang. He answered it, said, “We’ll be right there,” and turned to his visitors. “What did I tell you? Brenner’s early.”

They trooped down the hall and into the computer room. The operators were leaning over a terminal. Herb introduced Dick Fenimore, a tall, thin string bean of a man about twenty-five, with a shock of unruly red hair and wearing a T-shirt with a Nine Inch Nails logo, jeans, and running shoes; and Jim Kelly, a pudgy, already balding thirty-ish fellow in a Western shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots.

“Man,” Dick exclaimed to Clay, “this tracking program you installed is so cool. I’ve gotta learn how to program like this.”

“I can’t believe this guy,” Jim interjected with a West Texas twang. “He’s such a bonehead. Neither of us can figure out what he’s after. And what self-respecting hacker tries to dial in at five-thirty in the afternoon? Two in the morning I can understand, but five-thirty?”

“Move over, guys,” Clay said. “Let’s have some fun.” He sat down at the terminal and started hitting the keys.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, Clay toyed with Brenner, moving him around the system, cutting him off, letting him back in after several tries, and generally making the hacker’s life miserable.

With growing awe, Francie watched Clay manipulate Kevin. She knew she herself was no slouch with a program, but she had no idea how he had managed to do what he did. Remembering a phrase she had heard from a technical writer, she almost chuckled. “Flying fingers on the keyboard,” the writer had said, admonishing Francie to slow down in her explanation about the workings of a complicated program. The description fit Clay’s movements as he flipped between windows, typed in commands, ran the mouse pointer around the screen, and sent Kevin spinning off into the ether. If there were such an animal as a computer wizard, she thought, Clay Morgan was certainly one.

His abilities didn’t change any of her own feelings about him, she told herself as the group rose from their chairs. She still had to remember this was all business. Nothing personal.

After Clay locked Kevin out completely, the foursome went back to Herb’s office. “What do you think, Clay, Francie? What was Brenner after?” Herb asked as they took their seats.

“It looked to me like he was trying to find order entry and pricing again,” Francie answered.

“I agree,” Clay said. “He must have been doing some studying or research into your brand of software application, because he almost managed to open the order-entry system.”

“Now as I understand it, you have a computer copy of every move Brenner made tonight?” Childress asked.

“That’s correct, Bill,” Clay said, nodding. “And it shows Brenner was using Francie’s computer.”

Childress’s cell phone rang. The police lieutenant spoke into it for a few moments. “That was the officer we have watching Ms. Stevens’s apartment. He took photos of Brenner at the computer. He said the man looked ready to punch in the monitor a couple of times. Brenner just left, obviously angry, from the way he peeled out of the parking lot. You can go back home any time, Ms. Stevens.”

“Thanks,” she told him. Turning to Herb, she asked, “Do you need me any more tonight?”

“Your dinner with Brenner is set for Saturday night?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Francie replied.

“I’ll let you know how it goes, Herb,” Clay put in.

“Go on home, Francie,” Herb said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Anything else, Clay?”

“Nope. I’ll walk you out, Francie.” He held the door and followed her out, leaving Herb and Childress talking about the surveillance.

“This isn’t necessary, Clay,” Francie told him as they walked to her cubicle. She busied her hands with her notebook and pencil so he couldn’t hold one of them, but it didn’t help. He put his hand on the small of her back, and she could feel the energy flowing between them, even through her sweater.

“Why don’t we go out for a drink, or maybe some more to eat? I don’t know about you, but a hastily eaten sandwich is not my idea of dinner.”

She didn’t, wouldn’t, look at him and stepped away to enter her workspace. Why was she finding it so difficult to carry on a simple conversation? At least she’d prepared herself with an excuse just in case he had asked her out after dealing with Brenner. “Thanks, but I told Tamara I’d stop by her shop if I left work in time. She has a new shipment she wants to show me.” She pulled her purse and a book out of her desk drawer.

“How was your game on Tuesday?” Clay asked as they walked toward the elevator.

“We won, but it wasn’t easy.” Basketball seemed like a safe topic. She grinned widely. “The team we played took the championship from us last year, and this was a grudge match. How about you? How did your team do?”

“We won, too.”

“Good.”

They reached the lobby. She tried again to discourage him from accompanying her. “I’m in the parking garage across the street. You don’t have to . . .”

“Yes, I do,” Clay interrupted. “I’m in the same place.”

He didn’t say anything—for which she was grateful—as they exited the building, crossed the street, and entered the parking garage. Francie took her keys out of her purse. She could feel her anxiety increasing. What if he wanted to kiss her again?

At her car, Francie unlocked her door with the remote control and reached for the door handle, but Clay put his hand on hers.

“Please don’t do this,” she said, as his touch made her nerve endings vibrate.

“Francie, we need to talk.” His voice was low, and he raised her hand off the handle and cradled it between his larger ones. “About us. Our kiss last Saturday . . .”

“Clay, that can’t happen again.” She took her hand back and grasped her purse with it so tightly she probably made indentations in the leather.

He stared at her as if she’d grown horns. “What are you talking about?”

“I think we’ve had enough practice ‘being together.’ When we introduce you to Kevin, that should end our needing to ‘date’ or convince Tamara we’re a couple. This is all only business, after all. When you make the arrangements with Kevin, I can step out of the picture, and we can go back to our separate lives.”

“Our separate lives,” he repeated in a hollow tone. “What about us, our relationship?”

“Clay, there is no us. Don’t you see? This is all a charade, a play we’ve been putting on. Let’s just get through this . . . this mess with Kevin. I can’t think straight anymore, worrying about Tamara and trying to play a part. God, I hate deception.”

“So do I. That’s what we need to discuss.”

She could see a little anger in his eyes, accompanied by something else. Determination? Frustration? Confusion? No matter. “I disagree. I’m asking you not to compound the issue further by pretending feelings that don’t exist.”

“Feelings that don’t exist? I know myself, Francie, and I don’t have feelings that don’t exist.” He said the last four words as if their presence in his mouth left a vile taste.

“Well, I’m not going to discuss anything with you standing in a parking garage. I have to meet Tamara. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

He clenched his jaw and stared at her for a long moment through narrowed eyes. Finally he nodded. “All right, Francie. Let’s get through the dinner and then see where we stand.”

She thought of telling him that they didn’t “stand” anywhere, but kept her mouth shut and opened her door. She did not want to prolong the conversation.

He turned and left, taking long strides as if he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

She climbed into her car and sat for a moment, her forehead resting on her hands on the steering wheel. He wanted to talk about the kiss and where they stood? What did that mean? Why didn’t the man understand that there was no couple, there never was and never would be? Had he convinced himself from two dates and a few kisses that they had a relationship? Not even real dates, but playacting, people impersonating a couple.

She sat up and shook her head. What did he mean about discussing deception? God only knew, there was enough deception in this mess to fill Houston’s baseball stadium. Why discuss it to death?

All she had to do was get through the dinner with Tamara and Kevin. Then she could go back to her own life, blessedly devoid of all this turmoil. She’d be in charge of herself again.

Maybe she’d even start dating for real. Find a nice man, an undemanding man, an honest one. A normal-looking one who didn’t attract women like flies, one who couldn’t charm the socks—and other pieces of apparel—off women. One she could trust. Maybe her computer buddies knew some guys who were interested in computers and liked the things she liked.

She raised her head and looked at her reflection in the visor mirror. In the dim light, her eyes looked huge and weird, slightly haunted. Her stomach hurt, too—little pulses of pain—probably from gulping down that sandwich.

“Idiot,” she scolded herself. “You’re a computer analyst, and you can’t even think straight. You just have to hang in there a little longer.”

She started the car, backed out of her space, and exited the garage. She almost drove onto the freeway before she remembered she had told Tamara she’d drop by. “Idiot,” she said again, as she made the turn to take her to the shop.

She rubbed her stomach again. Maybe Tamara had some antacid tablets she could take.





On his way home, Clay played over the events of the evening. He thought he had worked Brenner well, giving the man nothing but grief. He’d be ready to find an expert when they met.

As for Francie . . . She had on those drab, baggy clothes again. She looked pale, like she wasn’t getting enough sleep. And she was definitely staying away from him, tonight being only the latest example. As much as he wanted, needed to talk to her, he hadn’t pushed in the parking garage. He definitely did not want to provoke a confrontation that would make her angry or drive her away. They needed to be calm and together on Saturday.

To be fair, he admitted she had to be feeling the strain of dealing with Tamara and her hacker boyfriend. That must be what was skewing her reactions to him, her soul mate.

But her statement about hating deception had given him pause. Was he deceiving her? Not about Brenner, of course. But about himself? About his motives? Did she still think what was between them was business, only business? Was “only business” really what she wanted?

How could she want him to go away if she were truly his soul mate? Especially after those kisses.

He certainly wasn’t playacting. Was she? How could she be, with the soul-mate imperative goading her on? She had to be itching and hurting, especially if she was denying her feelings. The ones that supposedly didn’t exist. Did she think he was lying to her about those? His existed, all right. A small sunburst of pain spread out from his magic center as if to corroborate his thoughts.

What about his being a practitioner, he asked himself as he stopped for a red light. Was he deceiving her about that? He certainly wasn’t telling her the whole truth, but as Daria had once said, the ability to cast spells and work magic didn’t ordinarily come up spontaneously in conversation. And look where it had gotten him when he did broach the subject. Definitely not forward.

He had to overcome her nonbelief in magic, and he doubted that would be easy. Not after her out-and-out, bald statements about being “grounded in the real world,” whatever that meant.

He had to show her what he was, convince her of his magical talents, but how? He could cast a ball of light and ignite a candle, but he didn’t have the showy abilities his mother and Gloriana did. On the other hand, Francie had been watching him closely as he led Brenner around the system with the help of his spell-aided program. She had looked fascinated and delighted with his manipulations. He knew she would like to know how he did it.

Maybe that was what he needed to do. Get her over to his house and show her his fancier computer spells. Those ought to convince her. Yeah, the more he thought about it, he really liked the idea. Computer wizardry would come to his rescue.

They had to talk about what was going on between them, and soon. But when she looked at him with those big brown eyes full of anxiety, he couldn’t bring himself to force the issue. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

First came the dinner on Saturday and the chance to make her see that what was between them was definitely not business, but magic of the most ancient kind. He grinned in anticipation as he exited the Southwest Freeway and turned left on Buffalo Speedway.

His magic center seemed to like his plan. The good, ol’ SMI was almost crooning along with him to the Brooks & Dunn song, “My Heart Belongs to You.”