Bewitching Hour Read online

  He hesitated for a moment, then on impulse quoted an old saying. “He who sits down to eat with the devil sups with a long fork.” But he said it in French.

  She looked up at him in complete confusion. “What?” He began to repeat it, but she shook her head. “In English, please. My French is third-grade level and completely lousy.”

  He just stared at her. Her French had been superb, a precise, Parisian French. And he looked up, past her shoulder, to stare directly into Leona’s triumphant little eyes.

  SYBIL’S DRIVE HOME from Deke Appleton’s seemed longer than seven miles. The roads were icy, but the Subaru could handle them. The heater finally decided to work, and at least the snow had stopped. Sybil shivered slightly, wrapped her scarf around her aching head, and drove onward, her eyes watering from concentration.

  So Dulcy and Nicholas hadn’t hit it off. The thought should have depressed and disturbed her. There was no reason why she should find it such a source of secret delight. Doubtless he liked short, buxom brunettes instead of tall, willowy blondes. There was no way he could prefer plain ordinary women of indeterminate everything. She was still safe, if she wanted to be.

  Of course she wanted to be. Right now she didn’t need her life complicated by someone like Nicholas Fitzsimmons. To be sure, he was a very handsome man; one couldn’t help but respond to such good looks. When he wasn’t wearing that bad-tempered glower he was even more irresistible. She’d brought him the whiskey-laced coffee as a peace offering, and the quick, grateful look he’d cast her way had almost taken her breath away. Not to mention the expression in those disturbing eyes of his when she’d awakened from Leona’s induced nightmare to find him holding her with all the tenderness of a lover.

  But then, there’d been that startled, disbelieving expression on his face when he’d babbled in French at her. She could understand a couple of words, but her grasp of the language had been rudimentary, to say the least. Languages were never her forte; she did better in English and art, less well in practical matters involving tenses and genders and declensions.

  She hadn’t even said good-night to him. She’d ducked out like the coward she was, before half of the Spook Group was ready to leave. She’d see him soon enough; Deke and Margaret were going to drop him back at his car tomorrow on their way to the airport, and she’d have to see him settled into the Black Farm. She’d hoped to foist that particular duty off on Leona, but the antagonism between the two made her own relationship with Nicholas seem like love at first sight. No, she’d have to do the dirty work. Maybe in the bright light of day he wouldn’t have that odd effect on her.

  Except that in December in northern Vermont there was unlikely to be any bright light during the day. Most likely more snow, maybe more sleet, certainly more gloom. Maybe she’d take the day off and go Christmas shopping—that would cheer her, or maybe she’d just sleep in, play with the dogs and let Nicholas find the farm by himself.

  No, she couldn’t be that much of a coward. She’d get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow she’d be in much better shape to deal with a bad-tempered, dangerously handsome, surprisingly charming thorn in her side. After all, he probably hadn’t spared an extra thought to her all evening. She’d get him settled, and they could forget about each other.

  And given the state of the weather, maybe hell would freeze over as well.

  THE BED WAS TOO soft, too narrow and too short. Nicholas was used to sleeping in a queen-size loft bed, and the narrow little cot to which Margaret Appleton had shown him resembled a torture chamber. He knew without asking that the Appletons were one of those couples who didn’t own anything larger than a twin bed. With a grunt of frustration he punched the limp pillow and accomplished the impressive feat of turning over without falling off the narrow mattress.

  Not that he would have slept well anywhere. For all the discomfort of his body, the discomfort in his mind far outweighed it. So far he couldn’t find a way to reconcile himself with what he had seen and heard and, most particularly, what he felt.

  He didn’t believe in past-life regressions. It was that simple. He didn’t believe in reincarnation, either, or at least, he was still highly skeptical. Most past-life regressions were the result of a combination of self-hypnosis, fantasy and half-formed memories from bad historical romances the subjects had read in their youth. They had nothing to do with real life and hard facts.

  But . . .

  Sybil’s French had been perfect. And the look of blank incomprehension on her face, when he’d spoken to her later, hadn’t been feigned. Of course, there were explanations for that. People knew a lot more in their subconscious than their conscious let them realize. She’d quite probably assimilated a great deal of French from foreign movies and years of French class that her conscious mind had resisted.

  But . . .

  She’d looked different when she was under hypnosis. That sensual grin, that sexy chuckle were nothing like the face she’d presented to the world at large yesterday. Perhaps yesterday was a bad day, perhaps she was usually like that gamine and the transformation had surprised only him.

  But . . .

  She’d known about Comtesse Félicité and the onset of the French Revolution, and she’d had a lover with his middle name, Alexandre, a lover who’d met a bad end. Félicité was a common enough French name, and, of course, any fantasy comtesse would have a lover. They probably both got the name Alexandre from Dumas père ou fils. There was no way either Leona or Sybil could have known about his own fantasies, but coincidences do happen, and they must have happened last night.

  But . . .

  It still didn’t explain his reaction. His eerie, half submerged recognition when she chuckled. His body and his reluctant mind had been flirting with an unwanted attraction to her all night. When she’d wept in his arms, he’d given up the fight. For some reason he wanted her, more than he’d wanted anyone in a long time. The musky librarian left him cold, the glorious Dulcy had no effect on him whatsoever, but for some inexplicable reason he wanted Sybil, and he couldn’t get that wanting out of his mind.

  He was going to have to watch Leona. He didn’t trust her, and he didn’t like her effect on Sybil. Then again, he didn’t like Sybil’s effect on him. Hell, right now he didn’t like anything much.

  Tomorrow it would begin to make sense. Sybil would lose whatever bizarre attraction she held for him. She was no great beauty, and yet he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her. He’d get settled into the Black Farm and begin his research, and avoid the Seekers of Enlightenment or Truth from now on. Superstition and mumbo jumbo had always been contagious, how could he have forgotten? He had to keep his mind clear and his options open.

  If one of his options included Sybil Richardson, he was open-minded enough to consider it, though he knew damned well she was going to bring him nothing but trouble.

  He punched the pillow once more, imagining Leona’s round face beneath his fist. He’d never run from trouble before, and he wasn’t about to start now. Sybil might prove a very delightful sort of trouble indeed. If he were one of her flaky friends, he’d run his hands along the side of the bed to dowse it. Instead of courting splinters, he turned over and finally went to sleep, only to be plagued with erotic dreams of a Comtesse Félicité who looked exactly like Sybil Richardson.

  Chapter Four

  SYBIL RICHARDSON had a headache, a nervous stomach, a scratchy throat and the worst case of nerves she’d had since she faced her assembled family last Fourth of July. She sat at her desk in the office of the SOWWs, thankful to be alone, and tried to cheer herself up.

  Sure she had a headache. When she’d braided her hair this morning she’d been in too much of a hurry, not to mention in a bad mood, and it was too tight, with holly-bedecked hairpins sticking into her scalp. Her stomach was in an uproar from too much coffee, though at least she hadn’t had to choke down the over-sweetened ch
amomile tea Leona usually pushed on her.

  A scratchy throat wasn’t unexpected on such a raw, blustery day, and her nerves were doubtless because she hadn’t slept very well last night. She could only blame that disturbing nightmare, half-terrifying, half-erotic, all about the French Revolution.

  She was lying to herself, she admitted with a sigh, taking another sip of the cooling Holly Jolly roast coffee and slipping a few of the more lethal hairpins from her coiled braids. There was one reason for her current state of physical and spiritual dis-ease, and one reason alone, and that reason was a man who had just been dropped off in the snowy driveway and who was now peering at his precious car like an anxious father.

  She considered throwing on her coat and rushing out to forestall his invasion of her territory. The sooner she got him settled into the Black Farm the sooner she’d be rid of him, or so she hoped. Deke had already made it clear that Nicholas should have free rein over his office and the adjacent library on the second floor of the old building. With Sybil’s luck he would be there every day, haunting her, driving her even crazier than Leona did.

  Well, she could take it. She could deal with the reactionary old men who made up the board of trustees, she could deal with her family in small and even large doses, and she could certainly deal with one rather large, gorgeous gentleman afflicted with antiquated ideas and a bad temper. Sure she could.

  She heard the silver bells on the front door ring, she heard the stamping of snow-covered feet in the hallway, but she made no move. Better to make him come to her, rather than to seek him out. She could sit, cool, remote, with a distant, amused smile playing around her mouth, while he blustered.

  The footsteps moved away, back toward the bookstore, and Sybil swore, her carefully cultivated smile vanishing. “I’m in here,” she called out, disgruntled.

  “I know.” His voice drifted back, and if anyone was amused, he was. “I’m just checking your book supplies.”

  “Hell and damnation,” Sybil muttered, shoving herself back from her desk and starting after him. The last thing she wanted was to have him poking around her shop, sneering at her choices, mocking her passions. “Wait a minute,” she yelled. “I’ll be right there.”

  She raced out of the office, not even bothering to put on her shoes, and the snow he’d tracked in sank into her wool reindeer socks. She cursed again, slipped on the next patch of melting snow, and barreled directly into a tall, immovable figure.

  His hands reached up to catch her arms, strong, surprisingly gentle hands. Her eyes were level with his shoulders, her flesh still smarted from the impact of their bodies, and she waited for her usual feelings of irritated intimidation to wash over her. They didn’t come.

  She stepped back, yanking herself out of his grasp with only a trace of startled panic. “You tracked snow in,” she said belligerently, staring at the unbuttoned top button of his blue wool shirt.

  “You aren’t wearing any shoes.” His voice was warm, with none of last night’s bad temper apparent. She looked up, startled, directly into those topaz-colored eyes and for a moment felt very much as she’d felt last night, as if she had drifted into a hypnotic state. There had been danger in that blissful lassitude, and danger lurked in his gorgeous eyes. She stood there, wiggling her damp feet, reminding herself that he was Trouble. “All this Christmas detritus on every surface seems a bit excessive. I thought you would be concentrating on Saturnalia and the like.”

  Sybil flushed, immediately defensive. “I happen to be very fond of Christmas. We do celebrate Kwanzaa and Hanukkah and everything else.”

  “Fond is putting it mildly. I recognize an obsession when I see one.” He cast a meaningful glance down at her holiday socks.

  “I don’t wear shoes in the office,” she said. “What did you want to see in the bookstore?”

  “I wanted to see what percentage of your stock was dowsing and what was new-age crap.”

  Any accord that might have begun between them vanished as swiftly as the snow had melted on the carpet. “As much as I want,” she snapped. “Why?”

  “Research, Sybil. I’m interested in how much other things have infiltrated the bastions of pure water divining.”

  Her reaction was quick. “Give me a break! No one wants to interfere with your prejudices and opinions. Leave us ours.”

  “I don’t want to interfere; I just want to document them. My book isn’t just on water dowsing, it’s on the division between traditionalists and the new wave.”

  “And we know which side you’re on.”

  “I have an open mind,” he said loftily.

  “Sure you do. While you check out the ‘new-age crap’ in my bookstore,” she snapped, finally bringing her condescending smile into play.

  He didn’t appreciate it. “I never said I was tactful.”

  “You don’t have to be tactful. You’re a professor, you get to cram your ideas down students’ throats and no one will dare disagree with you. Well, I’m not your student, Professor Fitzsimmons. And I think you’re full of—”

  “Sybil!” Leona’s soft voice cut her off in midsentence. She had just a moment to register Nicholas’s look of irritation before that bland, superior expression swept over his handsome face as he turned to greet the newcomer.

  “Hi, Leona,” Sybil said sheepishly. “Nicholas and I were just having a discussion.”

  “I heard it,” she said severely. “Do you realize the negative energy that is flowing through this place right now? Your aura is very tight and small, Sybil. Very tight and small.”

  “What about mine?” There was just the suggestion of a sarcastic drawl in Nicholas’s voice.

  “Bright red, Mr. Fitzsimmons. Red and angry. This is not the kind of energy we need here in the office,” she said. “I think the two of you should keep away from each other.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said softly.

  Sybil cast him a brief, curious glance before rushing to placate her friend. “Don’t worry about it, Leona. I’m just in a bad mood today—I’d fight with Mother Theresa herself. We’ll get our negative energy out of here. I’m going to see Nicholas settled into the Black Farm while you watch the office. I should be back in less than an hour.”

  “Perhaps I should go instead,” Leona offered. “You could stay here and clear the office.”

  “Clear the office?” Nicholas echoed. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

  Leona gave him a reproving look. “Professor Fitzsimmons, you know enough about all forms of dowsing to know I meant psychic clearing, not a physical overhaul. Sybil can sit and meditate, sending waves of healing energy through this place to clear out the angry vibrations.”

  “Does she do this on company time?”

  Sybil couldn’t help it. She giggled, earning Leona’s further displeasure. “Never mind, Leona. I’d probably do a lousy job of it. Why don’t you take care of it while I’m gone, and I’ll come back in a much more peaceful mood.”

  “And how will you manage that, cooped up with the professor?”

  “I’m sure I can come up with something,” Nicholas purred, and the sexual innuendo was so clear that for a moment Sybil was startled into silence. “And please, don’t call me professor. It makes me sound ancient and stuffy. Call me Nick.”

  Leona didn’t blink her dark little eyes, and there was no answering smile to Nick’s sudden use of charm. She turned to Sybil. “And I can smell the coffee,” she added accusingly.

  “It smells wonderful, doesn’t it?” Nick said.

  “It smells like death,” Leona intoned.

  “Oh, yuck, Leona,” Sybil protested. “That’s going too far.”

  “It kills the brain cells and destroys psychic receptivity,” Leona stated.

  “Yes, but it tastes so good,” Sybil protested.

  “Get your co
at on and take the professor over to the Black Farm. I’ll pour out that nasty stuff and brew us a nice pot of chamomile tea. It’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

  Sybil considered saying “yuck” once more, then changed her mind. Leona was clearly distressed, and Sybil hated to distress anyone, unless it was the tall man beside her. “That would be lovely, Leona,” she said gently. “I promise you it won’t take me long.”

  THE HELL IT WOULDN’T, Nick there and then resolved. He had every intention of keeping Sybil Richardson at the Black Farm as long as he possibly could. Apart from the fact that he hated to give her over to Leona’s tender mercies, he wanted to see if he could make her laugh again. That soft, unexpected giggle had the same effect on him that her transformation as the Comtesse Félicité had, and while he would like nothing better than to toss her down on the nearest bed Black Farm had to offer, he’d settle for just one more giggle, one more imperceptible lowering of that guarded distrust she kept wrapped around her.

  Maybe he’d have to learn tact. It had never been a commodity he’d dealt in; he preferred brutal honesty cutting through all the social lies that wasted time and intellect. But clearly Sybil, for all her obvious intelligence, had a soft spot for some of the crackpot beliefs held dear by the fringe elements of the water witching community, such as it was. If he didn’t want to spend all his time dodging her glares, he’d better learn to put a guard on his tongue.

  Given time, she’d see reason and learn that her auras and past lives and dashboard dowsing were nothing more than parlor games.

  Given time. The phrase echoed oddly in his head. He was only planning to be in Danbury for less than six weeks—just through the Christmas season and into the first weeks of the new year—and then he was off for his sabbatical in England. What made him think he’d have time to show Sybil Richardson the error of her ways? What made him want to?