"I believe I will." She snapped her fingers. A snifter drifted over and hung suspended in midair while she poured. It was showing off, she knew, but it was immensely satisfying. "Sure you don't want some?"

"Yeah."

With a shrug, she sent the decanter back. Glass clinked lightly against wood as it landed. "Now," she said, curling on the couch beside him. "Where were we?"

Hallucination, he thought. Hypnosis. He opened his mouth, but all he could manage was a stutter. Morgana was still smiling that sleek cat smile at him. Special effects. It was suddenly so clear, he laughed at his own stupidity.

"Gotta be a wire," he said, and rose to look for himself. "Hell of a trick, babe. Absolutely first-rate. You had me for a minute."

"Did I really?" she murmured.

"I hired some of the F/X guys to help me with this party last year. You should have seen some of the stuff we pulled off."

He picked up the decanter, looking for trips and levers. All he found was old Irish crystal and smooth wood. With a shrug, he walked over to crouch in front of the fire. He suspected she'd had a small charge set under the wood, something she could set off with a small device in the palm of her hand. Inspired, he sprang up.

"How about this? We bring this guy into town. He's a scientist, and he falls for her, then drives himself crazy trying to explain everything she does. Make it logical." His mind was leaping ahead. "Maybe he sneaks into one of her ceremonies. You ever been to one?"

She'd exorcised the temper, and she found only humor in its place. "Naturally."

"Great. You can give me inside stuff. We could have him see her do something off-the-wall. Levitate. Or this fire bit was good. We could have this bonfire, and she lights it without a match. But he doesn't know for sure if it's a trick or real. Neither does the audience."

She let the brandy slide warm into her system. Temper tantrums were so exhausting. "What's the point of the story?"

"Besides some chills and thrills, I think it's a matter of, can this guy, this regular guy, deal with the fact that he's in love with a witch."

Suddenly sad, she stared into her glass. "You might ask yourself if a witch could deal with the fact that she's in love with an ordinary man."

"That's just what I need you for." He sauntered over to drop down beside her. "Not only the witch's angle, but the woman's, too." Comfortable again, he patted her knee. "Now, let's talk about casting spells."

With a shake of her head, she set the drink aside and laughed. "All right, Nash. Let's talk magic."

Chapter 4

He hadn't been lonely. How could he have been, when he'd spent hours that day poring over books, enlivening his mind and his world with facts and fantasies? Since childhood, Nash had been content with his own company. What had once been a necessity to survive had become a way of life.

The time he'd spent with his grandmother or his aunt, or his sporadic stays in foster homes, had taught him that he was much better off devising his own entertainment than looking to the adults in his life to devise some for him. More often than not, that entertainment had equaled chores, a lecture, solitary confinement or—in his grandmother's case—a swift backhand.

Since he'd never been permitted an abundance of playthings or playmates, he'd turned his mind into a particularly fine toy.

He'd often thought it had given him an advantage over better-endowed children. After all, the imagination was portable, unbreakable and amazingly malleable. It couldn't be taken away from you by an irritated adult when you had committed some infraction. It didn't have to be left behind when you were packed off to some other place.

Now that he could afford to buy himself whatever he liked—and Nash would have been among the first to admit that adult toys were a terrific source of entertainment—he was still content with the fluidity of imagination.

He could happily close himself off from the real world and real people for hours at a stretch. It didn't mean he was alone, not with all the characters and events racing around in his head. His imagination had always been company enough. If he occasionally indulged in binges of parties and people, it was as much to gather grist for the mill as it was to balance out those solitary times.

But lonely? No, that was absurd.

He had friends now, he had control over his own destiny. It was his choice, his alone, whether to stay or to go. It delighted him that he had his big house to himself. He could eat when he was hungry, sleep when he was tired, and toss his clothes wherever it suited him. Most of his friends and associates were unhappily married or bitterly divorced and wasted a great deal of time and effort complaining about their partners.

Not Nash Kirkland.

He was a single man. A carefree bachelor. A lone wolf who was happy as a clam.

And what, he wondered, made a clam so damn happy, anyway?

Nash knew what made him happy. Being able to set his laptop out on the patio table and work in the sunlight and fresh air, with the drumming of water in the background. Being able to toy with the treatment for a new screenplay without sweating about time clocks or office politics or a woman who was waiting for him to snap back and pay attention to her.

Did that sound like the lament of a lonely man?

Nash knew he'd never been meant for a conventional job, or a conventional relationship. God knows his grandmother had told him often enough he'd never amount to anything remotely respectable. And she'd mentioned, more than once, that no decent woman with a grain of sense would have him.

Nash didn't figure that that stiff-necked woman would have considered penning occult tales remotely respectable. If she were still alive, she'd sniff and nod her head smugly at the fact that he'd reached the age of thirty-three without taking a wife.

Still, he'd tried the other way. His brief and terrible stint as a desk jockey with an insurance company in Kansas City had proven that he would never be a nine-to-fiver. Certainly his last attempt at a serious relationship had proven that he wasn't suited to the demands of permanence with a woman.

As that former lover, DeeDee Driscol, had sniped during their final battle, he was… How had she put it again? "You're nothing but a selfish little boy, emotionally retarded. You think since you're good in bed you can behave irresponsibly out of it. You'd rather play with your monsters than have a serious adult relationship with a woman."