“Seems rather harmless; hard to believe something like that could turn that little mouse back there into Marilyn Monroe.”
“I don’t put all my ingredients on the menu,” she said, reaching for another one of the secret black jars she kept in the under-the-counter refrigerator, and began to add a few drops of each into the cocktail: aster, maidenhair, vetiver root. She liked having Killian’s eyes on her, his intent attention as he watched her work, and began to show off a little. She pulled out a small amber bottle containing grains of paradise, minuscule seeds full of potent magic, and shook a sprinkling of them into the mixture. The potion turned a deep vermillion with a flash. The air fizzed with smoke, carrying the heady scent of vanilla and honey.
“That smells almost as delicious as you do,” Killian murmured, nuzzling her neck, his hand sneaking around her waist.
“Hey!” she protested, twisting away from him, but not quite making such a huge effort. “Hands to yourself! And you have customers—you’re here to help me, remember?” she said, as she poured out the cocktail into a martini glass. Had she already put in the vetiver root? She couldn’t remember and added just a little more just to make sure.
She handed the martini glass full of frothy purple liquid to Molly. “Here you go. One Irresistible,” she said curtly.
Killian proved adept at bartending, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. They worked side by side, slinging drinks, crushing ice, keeping the party going, the energy high. “Come on, now, you know you’ve missed me,” he said in between serving up a tray of shots for a rowdy group of ladies. “Oh, the silent treatment, is it?” he sighed, when she did not respond. “You can’t still be mad at me for what happened the night of your engagement, are you? You are? How boring of you. It’s not like you ever came to see me on the boat.”
Freya had heard enough. “Killian!”
“Yes, love?”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please leave me alone.”
“No.”
“No?”
Their eyes met, and it was just like the engagement party all over again. There was no denying the powerful attraction she felt toward Killian. It felt just as strong as her love for Bran. As if an invisible force was pushing her toward him. When she thought of Bran, her heart died a little in her chest. She had tried. She had tried so very hard to resist. She had been so very good for so long.
Killian bent his head toward hers, his lips brushing her cheek, but at the last moment she turned away from him and ran to the other side of the bar, her heart pounding in her chest. She turned up the volume on the jukebox. Maybe if she made the music loud enough she could drown out her confused whirl of emotions.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” he said, finding her a few minutes later in the walk-in pantry where Sal kept the supplies. “I won’t bite, I promise. Hand me that bottle of maraschino cherries.”
She shrugged and threw up her hands, as if to give up, and handed it to him. His fingers brushed her skin and she felt the fire between them begin to smolder; she could not look at him without seeing his want and his need all over his beautiful elfin face.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as he put aside the bottle and put his arms around her instead.
“You know what I’m doing.” He began to kiss her and push his body against hers, and the heat between them consumed her. . . . What was she doing. . . . Why was she doing it? . . . Why couldn’t she stop? Why couldn’t she offer even one word of protest?
“Freya,” he sighed. His voice was low and musical, playing her like a flute. Then he cupped her face in his hands and they began to kiss. He kissed her all over her face and neck, and they pressed against each other. Their kisses were long and soft, wet and searching; she could feel his excitement growing and she felt as if she were melting underneath his tongue.
This is the beginning of the end, she thought. The first time had been a mistake, a rash, impulsive act by a silly young girl. This time she should know better . . . and yet she had still succumbed. Freya returned his kisses eagerly, and fell headfirst into the abyss.
chapter twenty-two
The Long Road Home
When it came down to it, one could not meet danger alone, no matter how strong was one’s courage. When Joanna returned to the house, she repaired to her bedroom and immediately began to pack. She had no idea where this trip would take her, or how long it would take. Only that she had very little time, and she hoped that after all these years, he would agree to help her. They had a responsibility to this world, after all, those of them who were stuck on this side of the bridge.
Joanna ruminated on their long life here. It hurt her to admit, but the Beauchamps, for all their pride and their history and their magic, had nothing to show for themselves except a broken home, with a son in jail. For all her taste and style and obsession with home improvement and her “good” jewelry (she was especially proud of a pair of small but rare pearl earrings that she wore on special occasions), she was essentially a failure at all the important things. She had failed her son, and she had failed her husband. She could not save her boy back when the world was young, and she had faulted her husband for doing the same when it came to their daughters. It was a sorry business, but at least she was going to do something about it now. She could repair at least one part of it.
“Mom? What are you doing? Are you leaving?” Ingrid blinked without her glasses. She wore a white peignoir and her blond hair fell to her shoulders. She looked years younger, and Joanna wished she would wear her hair down more often; Ingrid looked so much prettier and softer that way.
“Just for a little while,” she replied, folding a sweater and stuffing it into her carpetbag.
“You didn’t answer my first question,” Ingrid pointed out.
“It’s safer for everyone if you don’t know where I’m headed,” Joanna replied, slipping her ivory wand into the pocket of her trenchcoat. She hoped to spare her girls the pain should she fail in her quest. It was better if they did not know what she was trying to do. She knew how much they missed him and how much they wanted him back. Of course she knew. She knew what she had done to the family, the irreparable line she had drawn; she had broken them in two, but there was no time for self-pity right then. There was no changing the past. “How was the Wagner yesterday?” she asked instead.
“Oh . . .” Ingrid shook her shoulders. Her older daughter, Joanna realized, was desperately, terribly unhappy about something. She wished she knew how to comfort her, but Joanna was not that kind of mother and Ingrid was not that kind of daughter. Their father had been the one who had been good at that sort of thing. The talking and the listening and the emotional support: it was their father they had turned to when their little hearts were broken or when they had happy news to share.
“Well . . . have a safe trip, wherever it is you’re going,” Ingrid mumbled.
“Take care, dear,” Joanna said, giving her daughter a close hug. “Watch out for Tyler, will you?” She couldn’t bear to say good-bye to the boy and so she had done the cowardly thing, slipping out in the middle of the night because it would be too painful to have a long and drawn-out farewell. No matter; with luck she would be back soon. She was only leaving to keep the town and everyone in it safe.
Dan Jerrods’s family ran the only taxi service in town, and he was waiting for her in front of the house with the car, an old Buick with bucket seats that smelled like a cigar store. She climbed in the front seat and placed her battered old valise on her lap and Gilly’s case on the floor. “Where to, Miss Joanna?” he asked.
“Train station, please, Dan, and hurry.”