HOLLY, IVY, AND ME

By

Monica Burns

And

Charlotte Featherstone

Beneath the Mistletoe © copyright December 2005, Charlotte Featherstone

A Bluestocking Christmas © copyright December 2005, Monica Burns

A Kind of Magic © copyright December 2005, Monica Burns and Charlotte Featherstone

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright December 2005

ISBN 1-58608-773-8

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Beneath the Mistletoe

By

Charlotte Featherstone

Chapter One

Harrow Lodge

1797, Christmas Eve

“A..An ... Andrew,” Holly stuttered nervously, “whatever are you about?”

“What do you think I’m about?” he drawled, sending her stomach clenching.

“I ... I have no idea.” And it was the truth. Whatever had come over Andrew this evening? She’d never seen him quite this way--a constant presence by her side. The sensual aura radiating from him was a side of him she had never been privileged enough to witness--despite years of yearning.

“Come now, Holly,” he whispered, taking another predatory step closer to her. “You must know what I want.”

She gulped, and took a step back, coming up against the hard, unyielding wood that framed the door. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” she whispered breathlessly.

She had known Andrew for most of her nineteen years. They’d practically grown up together. His guardian, Lady Mary Montague, was her mother’s best friend. Her mother and Lady Mary were inseparable and she and Andrew had become fast friends, entertaining each other while their mothers visited one another. But while they had been very close friends, Andrew had never looked at her with anything more than platonic interest. And how could he, she thought, as her trembling fingers gripped the door jam. She was an unremarkable creature, plain and forgettable. Andrew on the other hand was a living God. No man was more beautiful than Andrew Nightingale. He might not have the noble birth that other gentlemen of the ton could boast, but Andrew had other qualities that made him irresistible.

Oh, there was a part of her, a wistful romantic part, that had harboured dreams of him returning her affection. Even now, as he stood before her, trapping her against the door of the pantry, a part of her hoped that he had done so in order to kiss her. To steal an exciting embrace that would keep her warm the night through.

But that was utterly impossible, for she was Lady Holly Harrington, a lady of breeding and little beauty, and he was Andrew Nightingale, the orphaned child of artist parents--the handsome rake that could and did have every eligible and ineligible woman clamouring after him.

There was no denying that Andrew had the uncanny ability to charm and entice any woman who possessed a fraction of warm blood, despite his young age of two and twenty. And she was certainly no exception.

He took another step closer and her heart paused in her chest. Only when he stood directly before her did it begin to beat again--a fast, frenzied pace that made her feel lightheaded and dizzy.

His moss green eyes roved lazily along her face. How many times had she looked into those dark green eyes fringed with impossibly thick chestnut brown lashes? How familiar they should be to her. But they were not. There was something in his eyes she had never seen before.

He reached up, and her breathing stilled. His finger brushed her temple before reaching higher. He plucked a creamy white bud from the sprig of mistletoe that hung in the center of the doorway. Her eyes followed his hand and she watched as the sprig swayed on its green velvet ribbon. Carelessly he tossed the pod to the ground. He turned his gaze to hers, then lowered his mouth to her forehead, kissing her softly, reverently.

Then he plucked another bud from the sprig and moved his lips till they rested at her temple. Flicking the seed from his fingers, he kissed her, his lips brushing her skin and hair.

He reached for another, then moved his mouth down to her cheek, kissing her. Another seed was freed and his lips descended to her jaw. Her heart was racing wildly. She felt the pulsation in her throat, felt the tightening of her bodice against her breasts. Her breathing was coming in short, sharp pants, and she could not hide it--she could not hide her response to him.

His gaze travelled lower, to the vein she was certain was throbbing beneath her skin. She knew it was when he reached out to put his fingertip to her neck. He tilted his head, studying his finger as it slowly trailed the bounding vein. He pressed forward and inhaled once, softly, almost imperceptibly, then again, deeper. He moved his head so that his face was pressed against her, so that his lips only grazed her heated flesh. She whimpered and went rigid when he exhaled against her, sending hot breath whispering across her throat. Oh, God, what was he doing to her? Why was he doing this--inflaming her, making her yearn, making her want?

He reached up between them, his face still pressed against her and plucked another pod from the sprig. And then he pressed his lips to the quivering pulse that leapt with his touch. A deep sound resonated in his chest.

His eyes found hers and he reached for the sprig, crushing it in his hand so that all the berries pulled away from the stem and rolled off his hand. “This was the only sprig of mistletoe in the house that had enough berries left to allow me to do everything I want to do to you.”

She whimpered and arched her neck, feeling his hands--both hands--stroke either side of her neck. Slowly his hands descended her throat and back up again, his thumbs brushing her wildly beating pulse.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head further back, her lips parting just enough to allow the barest movement of air between them. He groaned and she felt his finger trace her mouth.

“Innocent, perfect lips,” he whispered.

Her body was now drawn tight and his words made her lower parts clench, then loosen, emitting a thick wetness on to her thighs. This was arousal. This was consuming need--mind, body, spirit.

“Such perfection,” he whispered darkly, stroking his thumb along her lip.

Her eyes slid to his, and she was shocked by his expression. Never had she seen him look at her in such a fashion. There was something dark, almost disturbing in his eyes.

She licked her dry lips, preparing to speak, but his eyes darkened even more as he watched her tongue glide along her bottom lip.

She saw the slow descent of his mouth to hers, saw his lips part, yet the shock of Andrew’s mouth against hers made her stiffen. It was wonderful, intimate, and more than a little strange. She had prepared herself for a physical assault, but was pleasingly surprised by his gentle kiss. It was slow, thoughtful, almost as if he were savoring her. One hand left her face and slid along her body until he could thread his long fingers tightly with hers while his other hand stroked the side of her face, down to her chin. His lips pressed once more against hers, then he angled his head and kissed over and over again with his hot open mouth.

What was she to do? She’d never been kissed before. She couldn’t think, her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, as if she were drugged, disembodied. She was conscious of the moan that escaped her when he slanted his mouth against hers, encouraging her to open for him.

“Your tongue,” he said against her lips. “I want to feel it.”

She gasped at the same moment she felt his tongue slide along her lower lip. “I don’t know how,” she admitted, ashamed by her inexperience.

“Let me in. Let me taste you. Let me teach you.” He parted her lips and slid his tongue deep into her mouth.

It was strange at first. Holly had to fight the urge to straighten away from the intrusion. But after the immediate shock dissipated, she was left with the feel and taste of him as his tongue boldly swirled inside her, mingling with hers.

He groaned and his hand left her face and cupped her breast. Hungrily he kissed her, his mouth slanting over hers, faster and faster. His tongue drove into her, and she could do nothing but reach for him and wrap her arms around his neck and hold on as he swept her away.

He broke off the kiss and searched her face, then slowly he slid his gaze up to the naked stem of the mistletoe. He pulled it from its spot, the green ribbon dangling from his fingers. He brought the velvet to her mouth and brushed it against her lips.

“Kiss it,” he whispered, watching her as she pressed a chaste kiss to the ribbon. He brought it his mouth and peered down into her eyes.

“ I couldn’t stand to let you go before you had been properly kissed. I couldn’t bear to think that anyone had tasted this beautiful mouth before I.”

“Andrew, I don’t understand--”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb along her lips. “I know you don’t, Holly, but I hope in time you will. Now then, no more words. There is nothing to say. Walk away from me, Holly, and do not look back. Walk away and let me watch you.” She started to protest but he placed his finger on her lips. “Ssh,” he whispered. “Walk away.”

Sliding past him, she took two steps and then stopped. Turning around she saw that he was watching her, the ribbon hanging between his fingers as he brushed the velvet with his thumb.

“Walk away,” he murmured.

She did, and when she awoke the next morning--Christmas morning--she discovered that Andrew had done the same. He had walked away. Walked away from her, the Montagues, and England.

A Bluestocking Christmas

By

Monica Burns

Chapter One

“I want to know why.”

Ivy turned her head away from the stark fury on Simon’s face. He’d betrayed her, and he still couldn’t see it. In his arrogance, he’d betrayed her trust, just as Carolyn had. Her cousin’s betrayal had been difficult enough, but Simon’s was far more painful. While their original arrangement hadn’t required her trust, she had given it nonetheless. Breaching that confidence, when she had so little to give, was the most brutal of all betrayals.

Even if she tried to explain it to him, she couldn't make him understand that they came from two different worlds, that it would always be a barrier between them. Her cousin had claimed background accounted for nothing, but her actions had revealed her true feelings. When Carolyn had entered the salon a short time ago, the past had rushed up to assault Ivy’s senses--the rejection, the humiliation, the constant reminders that she was inferior to those of the peerage.

No. The chasm between herself and Simon was too wide to cross. It was a barrier that would even-- She slammed the door shut on her thoughts. Deliberately, she focused on the Christmas tree in the corner of the salon and the garland on the window. The sight tugged painfully at her heart.

Underneath the tree was the one thing she’d been certain would ensure her happiness, the one possession she owned that she thought would help her win Simon’s love. Oh God, how could she give him up? Wouldn’t it be worth the price she’d pay in heartache simply to be in his arms, to love him in spite of his betrayal? Could she forgive him that?

She was capable of forgiving him anything, but this afternoon had proven how wide the rift was between them. He’d expected her to forgive Carolyn. If he couldn’t understand why her cousin’s betrayal cut so deep, he would never understand why his actions had devastated her. Sorrow enveloped her like an icy blanket. Swallowing hard, she inhaled a sharp breath before looking at him again.

“Sometimes there isn’t a reason why, Simon. I just know I can’t see you anymore.”

“Can’t or won’t?” The clipped words rekindled the fire of her anger residing just beneath the surface. As usual, the man refused to take no for an answer.

“Is there a difference?”

Their conversation was becoming pointless, and if she didn’t put some space between them, she would be in his arms, allowing him to kiss her into submission. But isn’t that what you want, Ivy? Don’t you want him to fight for you? Don’t you want him to say your social standing is of no consequence to him? The voice in her head taunted her. More importantly, it frightened her that the voice was right. With a shove, she twisted her body out of his grasp. If he were to break through all her barriers, she would be as vulnerable as a newborn babe. Her breath hitched at the thought. She didn’t have the strength to risk such a possibility.

Her fingers tightened on the swag of material that hugged her hips and swept around toward the bustle of her dress. “There’s nothing more to say. I’d like you to leave.”

Ivy turned away, but a strong hand gripped her arm and forced her to a halt. Her gaze dropped to the firm, sturdy fingers holding her in place before flying upward to meet the icy expression glittering in his gray eyes.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ivy. I have a lot more to say. But this time I don’t intend to use words.”

Sweeping her into his arms, his mouth covered hers in a searing kiss. The heat of it stirred her senses into a whirlwind of desire. Dear Lord, with just one kiss he’d managed to drive every sane thought from her head. No matter what he said or did, she always craved his touch.

A strong hand slid up her waist and then over the top of her breasts. She moaned with the need to feel his skin against hers one more time. Just one more moment of passion for her to remember. Without thinking, she melted into his arms, her body controlling her actions, not her mind. Since the first time he’d touched her, she’d always been eager for his touch. Familiar sensations tingled across her skin as his kiss deepened into the seductive caress that had always sent her pulse skittering wildly.

She offered up no protest as he guided her toward the loveseat, his muscular legs pressing into hers. The muted taste of cognac filled her mouth as his tongue mated with hers. Almost instantly, her nether regions exploded as need dampened the area between her legs.

The wanton sensations holding her hostage blinded her to anything but this moment and his touch. Nothing else mattered except for the overwhelming taste, scent and feel of him. Frantic to feel his skin against hers, she clawed at the back of her dress until it fell open and off her shoulders.

Strong fingers brushed hers aside as he undid the lacings of her corset. Brief moments later, his mouth gently clamped down on a stiff nipple. The action pulled a sob of relief from her. God help her, but the man could ask anything of her now and she’d agree to it.

His hot tongue flicked and teased her nipple as they sank down onto the sofa. Eager to touch him, her hand slid down to where his hard length pressed rigidly against his trousers. With one finger, she stroked him through the material. In response to her touch, a deep growl rumbled in his chest. Shifting his body slightly so his erection was out of her reach, his fingers quickly pulled her skirts up to her knee, and he slid his hand beneath the silk to reach her damp curls.

When his fingers dipped into her wetness, another shudder coursed its way through her. Desire drove her body to thrust up against his hand, while the need for him to complete her burrowed its way through every nerve ending in her body.

The abruptness of his sudden withdrawal stunned her. Bewildered, her eyes flew open to watch him as he pushed himself away from her. For a brief moment she thought she saw a flash of pain in his eyes before a closed expression enveloped his features.

“No. No, I don’t think so, Ivy. It seems you were right. There really is nothing more to say, is there. ”

With a swift move, Simon rose to his feet, his gray eyes dark and cold. Stunned, she watched him straighten his coat and nonchalantly smooth his lapel. The steely frost of his gaze settled on her face and she flinched at the distaste she saw there.

“You’ll forgive me, my dear, but if I recall you did ask me to leave. And quite frankly, bedding an embittered spinster who’s a mere commoner is the last thing I can stomach at the moment.”

Ice sluiced across her skin at the brutality of his words. Shame tightened her throat as she stared up at him. With another look of disdain, he wheeled around sharply and stalked out of the salon.

Stricken by his words and his departure, Ivy gripped the back of the sofa as she pulled herself upright. Fingernails biting into the dark mahogany trim of the velvet couch, she struggled to keep from crying out after him. The cruelty of his words flayed across her heart with the precision of a cat-o'-nine tails. She had barely caught her breath when the sound of the front door crashing closed behind him reverberated through the room.

Reality slowly forced its way into her mind, and a soft sob broke past her lips as she stumbled to her feet. Oh, God, what was she going to do? The cold air on her bare breasts prodded her to straighten her clothing. Numb fingers tied her stays and then fumbled with the buttons of her dress.

She needed to go after him. No. That was impossible. What was she thinking? She’d just rejected him. The last thing Simon Carlton, the Viscount Wycombe wanted from her was apologies or explanations. Neither of which he would accept. And why should she apologize? He was the one who’d resurrected her past, brought Carolyn to London.

One hand pressed to her brow, she closed her eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. Fresh and clean, the scent of the decorated fir tree teased her senses. It provoked a mixture of happy and painful memories. She studied the small tree sitting so prettily on the table in the corner of the salon.

Christmas Eve. It was suppose to be a happy time. Even happier than when she was a child, simply because this year was going to be different. Simon was to have been a part of the holiday. But that hope was gone. Now, all she could feel was utter despair. It chilled her far worse than the snowy weather outside.

And his disgust just a few moments ago. His cruel words. He’d deliberately enticed her into his arms just to humiliate her. Blinking back tears, she failed to prevent the escape of one teardrop. Hands clutched in front of her, she moved toward the Christmas tree.

Sweets and several glass ornaments gaily decorated the green branches. Dazed, she lightly touched one of the gingerbread cookies dangling from a red silk ribbon. Simon liked Mrs. Morris’ sweets, and the cook had made the ornaments especially for him.

Beneath the tree, she saw the present she’d picked out for Simon. He was fond of quoting Marcus Aurelius, and she’d search the city to find a book of the Roman emperor’s sayings. Next to his gift lay the velvet-covered box. Her fingers caressed the square box. The Grand Dame’s necklace.

Opening the lid, she stared down at the brilliant diamonds and the large ruby at the heart of the necklace. Simon had once roguishly said he wanted to see her wearing nothing but diamonds. It had been her intent to honor that request tonight.

Fingers trailing over the hard, beautiful stones, she shook her head. The necklace was reputed to bring luck to its owner. Luck in the form of everlasting love. Some of her maternal ancestors had even claimed to have been helped by the Grand Dame’s spirit.

Sniffing her disgust at the thought, she slammed the lid closed. Remembering the stories her mother had told her at bedtime as a small girl, she’d pulled the necklace out of her safe hoping it would do for her what family legend said it had done for others. Clearly, the tales were embroidered nonsense. In her wild imaginings, she’d believed that wearing the necklace while she and Simon made love would help ensure her happiness. She should have known better.

If anything, the necklace was a curse. They jewels were as cold as the look in Simon’s eyes just a few moments ago. The jewelry had done nothing but bring her pain and sorrow. Like her belief in the necklace’s power, her belief that they could close the social gulf between them was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. With another shudder, she wrapped her arms about her waist and bent her head.

“If it meant you could be with him for always, Ivy, would you believe then?” The gentle voice whispered behind her, and she whirled around in surprise.

The room was empty.

Shivering, she shook her head. Her mind was playing tricks on her. The Grand Dame was a myth, an imaginative flight of fantasy thought up by one of her ancestors. She was distraught about Simon, nothing more. Once more, she looked at the Christmas tree, tears tightening her throat. She couldn’t stay here. Not like this. She couldn’t bear to remain in this room, this house any longer. Another tear trailed down her cheek. She had to find someplace else to lick her wounds.

The Library. She would go to the Library. It was almost six o’clock and everyone would be gone--gone home to be with their families for Christmas. The thought tugged at her heartstrings.

Blowing out a sharp breath, she grimaced. Enough self-pity. She would go to the Library and work. It would be a source of comfort to her. The warm, musty smell of old books would dim the memory of Simon’s rugged scent. In the bookracks, she might find the peace and quiet she’d known before he’d entered her life. Her decision made, she brushed away the dampness on her cheeks as she emerged from the salon and stopped at the hallway mirror. Her appearance was scandalous. Behind her, Morris cleared his throat.

“Your pardon, Miss Ivy, but is there anything I can do for you?” Although his words sounded level and matter-of-fact, she heard the concern behind the butler’s question. For all his austere manner, Morris had the quiet habit of looking after her as a father might. He’d obviously been privy to Simon’s furious departure.

Dear lord, half the house must have heard as well, given the crash of the front door when Simon had stormed out of the house. All the more reason to flee to the Library. Her staff had been with her for quite some time, and they’d developed an affinity for protecting her. But it was Christmas, and she’d given them time off to spend with their families. If they thought she needed them, they would sacrifice their holiday to stay with her. She wasn’t about to let that happen.

She forced a smile to her lips and turned to face him. “Actually you can, Morris. Would you summon a hansom cab for me and then fetch my things? I’ve decided to work at the Library this evening.”

Tall and portly, the butler gave a slight start, but immediately went to the front door to hail the cab as she struggled to repair her appearance. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the pins holding her hair in place and hastily rearranged her hair in what the Americans were all calling the Gibson Girl look.

Staring at herself in the mirror when she finished, she blinked back another onset of tears. No, she refused to cry. There was no point in it. A moment later, Morris reappeared at her side with her hat and cloak. He waited patiently as she set the hat on her head, before settling the cape on her shoulders. The gentle brush of his hands on her shoulders as he dusted off imaginary flecks of lint gave her a small measure of comfort.

“And will Lord Wycombe fetch you from the Library, Miss Ivy, or shall I make other arrangements for you?”

Forcing a brittle laugh past her lips, Ivy shook her head as she met the butler’s eyes in the mirror. “Actually, I won’t be seeing Lord Wycombe anymore, so I’ll find a hansom cab when I’m ready to leave.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve, Miss Ivy! It will be exceptionally difficult to find a hackney in St. James Square given the lateness of the hour.”

“Thank you for your concern, Morris. But I’ll be quite all right.” Tugging on her gloves, she stared into the mirror at her reflection. Was that stricken expression really hers? It was the same look she’d seen on her face the day Carolyn had betrayed her so long ago.

It was with relief she heard Morris inform her the hack was at the front door. Not meeting the butler’s eyes, she swept past him and climbed into the small vehicle.

As the butler closed the door of the cab, she forced a smile to her lips and touched his hand on the top of the door. “Happy Christmas, Morris. I expect you and Mrs. Morris to enjoy the holiday with your family. Be sure to let the rest of the staff know they’re not to return until late tomorrow evening.”

Ignoring the deep concern on the butler’s face, she looked up at the small window in the vehicle’s roof and ordered the cab driver to drive on before she sank back into the cab’s leather seat. Despite her warm clothing, the frosty night air bit into her skin. Her sigh blew out a soft cloud of warmth from her lips as she numbly watched last-minute shoppers hurrying out of shops on their way home. Two days ago, she’d been one of those customers, happily calling out season's greetings to strangers as she’d hurried home to wrap Simon’s present.

Why on earth did she persist in torturing herself like this? It was over--finished. There was no going back now. One could never go back. Her cousin might have been quite resourceful when it came to Thornton Whitby, but not even Carolyn could turn back the clock.

Whitby. He’d been the first man to pay any attention to her, and she’d fallen quickly for his smooth compliments and false promises. He’d even said he loved her. Although she now recognized what an overbearing boor Thornton had been, it didn’t make Carolyn’s betrayal any less painful. Her cousin deserved to find herself a penniless widow with three mouths to feed.

Wincing at the memories, she huddled under the cab’s warm wool blanket. She didn’t want to think about Carolyn or her children. Especially little Ivy. Why would her cousin name her youngest daughter after her? It had to be a ploy of some sort. A way to gain the child money through a possible inheritance. Well, she had someone else to look after now, someone else who would occupy her time and resources.

Carolyn had made her choice a long time ago. If the woman hoped for any redemption from her, then she was sorely mistaken. She could never forgive such a brutal betrayal. But the children. The memory of the three little girls made her wince. They’d looked so thin in their threadbare clothes.

Still their smiles had been sweet and cheerful. Euripides had said that the gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children. Were Carolyn’s children responsible for their mother’s sins? Could she abandon them to poverty so easily? No, Simon would take care of them. His sympathy for her cousin had been quite evident. Soon her daughters would be well-dressed and well-fed. Carolyn would see to that. It was only a matter of time. Her stomach lurched as the hack rolled to a stop and interrupted her chaotic thoughts. Paying the driver, she quickly made arrangements for him to return for her at nine o’clock.

Moments later, she was standing in the cold, dark foyer of the London Library. Turning up the gas light on the wall, she shivered at the chill in the air. The head librarian had no doubt allowed the coal to burn out. Moving across the foyer to the circulation desk, she removed her hat and cape. A large stack of returned books rested on the counter. Scooping them up, she examined their labeling and entered the bookshelves to replace them.

She’d returned at least two books to their rightful place when she heard the whisper of a gown against the wood floor. Glancing behind her, the aisle was empty. Blast it, she needed to control her imagination. She resumed the shelving of the books and moved toward another section. Again, the rustle of a gown reached her ears. The remaining books she carried were set down on an empty shelf as she peered through the bookshelves.

“Hello, is someone there?”

When there was no response, she reached for the books only to freeze in shock. Lying on top of the books was the Grand Dame’s necklace. Stunned, she could only stare at the glittering jewelry. How had it gotten there? In her dazed state, had she brought the necklace with her? Yes, that’s what she’d done. She’d somehow carried it out of the house without realizing it. It was the only explanation.

“Now, Ivy, you know you’re far too practical to do something like that.”

There it was again, that gentle, yet firm voice she’d heard earlier. She reached for the necklace then jerked her hand back as it suddenly moved to hang suspended in the air. Fear edged its way through her body and she took two steps back. For a long moment, she stared at the suspended necklace before she got angry.

“Who’s in here? Show yourself!” The moment she spoke, the necklace dropped back onto the books.

“As you wish.” The voice came from the end of the aisle, and Ivy turned to see a swirling mist moving toward her.

Sweet heavens, a ghost. No one had ever mentioned anything about a ghost in the library before. Of course, it wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts weren’t real. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She was seeing things. This entire affair with Simon had made her so distraught she was becoming delusional.

“No, dearest, you’re not delusional.” The voice strengthened as a woman stepped out of the mist. Her odd dress was reminiscent of the Georgian era with its wide hooped skirts and her white powdered pompadour. The dress she wore was a rich blue silk with ivory brocade gathered up in a graceful swag on either side of her waist.

Pink lace edged her bodice while a delicate bow of pink nestled at the vee of her gown. The same pink lace trimmed the edges of sleeves that ended just below her elbows. Despite her strange costume, her expression was gentle and sweet. Blue eyes sparkled with laughter as she met Ivy’s gaze.

Unable to move, Ivy swallowed hard as the woman halted a few feet away from her. Dear lord, it was the woman in the portrait. The painting that hung in the stairwell at home. The same woman who was wearing the legendary necklace. The Grand Dame. She blinked and then blinked again. The woman didn’t disappear. Nor did the family jewelry that had suddenly appeared around her neck, the large ruby bright and clear in the diamond setting.

“You’re not real. You’re a figment of my imagination,” Ivy muttered as she turned to walk away. A gentle touch on her shoulder stayed her.

“I’m quite real, dearest, but there are only a few short hours left before I must leave you, so we must hurry if I’m to accomplish what I came here to do.”

Ivy shuddered. She was mad. Stark, raving mad. It was the only answer. Taking a step backward, she shook her head. “I ... you’re not ... real....”

“Give me your hand, Ivy.” The Grand Dame stretched out her arm with a look of gentle encouragement. As if in a trance, Ivy took the offered hand. The woman was real and solid to the touch. “You see, I am real. At least for the moment.”

“I don’t understand ... how is this possible?” Ivy shook her head as she stared at the other woman.

“You called me here by touching the necklace. By believing that the magic of the necklace would give you your heart’s desire--Simon.”

Stiffening, she shook her head. “No. He’s not my heart’s desire.”

“We both know that’s not true, Ivy. You’re hurting, but hearts are mendable. Come. If after our journey you still wish to forget Simon, I will help you do so.”

As the Grand Dame’s words echoed in her head, Ivy gasped as a swirling white fog engulfed them and the library shelves disappeared completely.

A Kind of Magic

By

Monica Burns

And

Charlotte Featherstone

Chapter One

The room was dark, except for the bright blinking of an immobile cursor. Downstairs, the radio played Jingle Bell Rock. It was six o’clock in the morning on December the twenty-first and Julia Taylor, a thirty-year-old struggling midlist romance author rested her head on top of her desk. It was utterly useless--she, was utterly useless.

‘Just let it come,’ Natalie, her agent had advised. ‘Just let the characters write it the way they want to write it’. Right. Julia snorted as she looked up through a curtain of ash blond hair. Let the characters write the story. Well, hell where were the characters? The friggin’ cursor was still blinking at her, and there wasn’t a damn word on the page, and just to make her vexation more complete, Simon and the Chipmunks were now squeaking out their version of seasonal happiness.

“Forget it,” Julia grumbled, jumping off her chair and leaving the study. She needed a drink. A rum and coke to be precise. God, she needed a hell of a lot more than alcohol, she muttered to herself as she strolled into the kitchen, wincing when she saw the dishes that lay scattered on the counter. What she needed was a full time maid, a cook, and one hell of a manuscript. But none of that was going to happen. Not in this lifetime, and most especially not during the Christmas season.

If there was one thing she detested, it was Christmas. She hadn’t always hated it. In fact, she used to make herself so excited she would end up spending the night throwing up--all in anticipation for Santa and the carols and her cousins who were expected to arrive the next day, not to mention at least one extra shortbread cookie she hadn’t needed.

Julia glanced at the clock on the microwave--6:05 am. Much too early for rum. What the heck, she thought, tossing out the old filter from the coffee pot, she’d have a little Bailey’s in her coffee. That ought to get her going. She smiled, remembering how her mom had always indulged in a little ‘treat’ in her Christmas morning coffee.

Her mom loved Christmas, but it had been a long while since Julia had fond memories of the holiday. Everything was so commercial and fast paced. It was over before it started, and far too much work for its worth. Where was the anticipation? The family and the fellowship of man? Where was the love?

She was a dreamer. A hopeless romantic lost in today’s high-tech, fast paced world. Of course, she wouldn’t admit that to anyone. The Julia Taylor everyone knew was a modern young woman with a sound head on her shoulders. Only her mom knew her dreams and realized that inside Julia was more than just a desire to dally in fairy tales--she wanted to live one.

“Whatever happened to sleigh rides and kissing beneath the mistletoe?” she muttered, opening the carton of cream and sniffing it to make certain it wasn’t past its expiration date. What about balls and soirees and elegant gowns, and men in cravats?

Pouring a liberal amount of cream and Bailey’s into her coffee, neither of which she needed, she took a large satisfying sip and groaned when she heard the familiar voice of her fiancé--ex-fiance, she mentally corrected.

“You’re listening to 95.1 FM, home of the classics. Well, it’s freezing outside and you’re waking up to a fresh blanket of snow. Kind of gets you in the spirit, doesn’t it?”

Julia levelled the digital display on her stereo with a menacing glare. “Gets me in the spirit, right. I have no spirit. You took it when you said I was frumpy and fat.”

But Scott kept on talking, always having to have the last word. “Four days till Christmas,” he said merrily. “Here’s a little something to get you in the mood.”

Judy Garland’s Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas came over the airwaves and Julia bit back the tears that immediately sprung to her eyes. “Asshole,” she choked, tightening the sash of her old terry cloth robe before reaching for her coffee. “You just had to play that one, didn’t you?”

Damn Scott. What had she ever seen in him? Sure he was good looking and funny, but he had always been an unfeeling clod. But, she reminded herself as she trudged up the stairs, once again sitting before her computer screen, the simple truth was, he’d been the only man to pay to her any attention. She’d been a hopeless failure in high school and university, always too plain and a few pounds too heavy.

With a depressed sigh, she raised the cup to her lips and watched as the cursor blinked insolently back at her. Well, she certainly didn’t feel like writing now that she’d heard Scott on the radio, all cheery and full of Christmas spirit. The writing was crap anyway. She snorted, hitting the delete key and watching as the cursor ate her words. Now where to start?

Judy had finished and now O Holy Night was playing. This one had always been her favorite. Tears sprung to her eyes and she looked about her study in a vain attempt to keep them from spilling. She was not going to cry over Scott Marchand or the fact that it was going to be Christmas in four days and she was thirty and unwed and unattached ... and ... and what ... lonely?

Her gaze landed on a portrait of a stunning couple that sat proudly above the fireplace in her study. No, she wasn’t lonely. She had her family and her friends to keep her company. It wasn’t that. It was more. Like a feeling of homesickness, but that didn’t make any sense, she was home. Her parents lived ten minutes away for heaven’s sake. But still, she couldn’t shake the gnawing in her belly. She just didn’t feel....complete.

The longer she stared at the portrait the more palpable the feeling became. She wasn’t settled. Raising the cup to her mouth once again, she drank deeply and wondered if she’d put too much Bailey’s in the coffee or if another tear was threatening to slip the confines of her lashes--for what other reason could there be for the sparkling twinkle she saw in the Grand Dame’s blue eyes.

"Nuts," she muttered, shaking her head. The couple in the portrait were her grandparents, several generations removed. They were long since dead, their only reminder a portrait of them in their Georgian costumes and a chandelier styled diamond necklace bequeathed to every daughter down the line. Their story was one of love and passion, and more than a bit of intrigue, for her grandmother, it was said, was an impish young lady, who, once she had something set in her mind, was not wont to give up her hold. And that something had been the man she married.

“A very good making of a romance novel”, Julia said, grinning as she saluted the pair with her coffee cup. “I daresay I could make a best seller out of your lives.”

She clutched the mug to her chest and looked around the room when she heard ‘well, do it,’ whisper past her. Definitely too much Bailey’s she thought, staring into her empty cup. But a good idea nonetheless. Who would know that it was alcohol induced?

“Where to start,” she said, staring at the screen and cracking her knuckles.

Why not start at the beginning, dearest? the clipped, English voice whispered in her ear with an aristocratic authority

“Yes,” Julia grinned. “They’re already talking. C’mon, tell me your story, gran.” Already her fingers were poised on home-row, waiting to hear the character’s voice again. Nothing better than a character that speaks to you.

With a deep breath, she typed the first thing that came to her mind. She wanted him, and there wasn’t a damn thing on earth that was going to stop her from having him. Hmm, feisty, Julia smiled. Obviously Grandmother Langdon had more than imp’s blood coursing through her veins.

Julia sat back and looked at the line. It wasn’t the best opening, but it wasn’t the worst, either. Could lead somewhere--to the bedroom most likely. But hey, this was her breakout book. This was the manuscript that was going to propel her to the top of the New York Times Best Seller list and launch her out of her midlist blues.

The next sentence was easier, followed by the next. Soon she was lost in a blinding whirl of typing and watching the words on the screen that seemingly came from someone other than her. It was beautiful. It was magic. She didn’t even hear the sappy Christmas carols playing on the radio anymore, until that oh-so-familiar sound....buloop, shattered her concentration.

Ah, no, not Tanya, Julia groaned, staring at the familiar instant messenger name. Her friend had infallible timing.

Teats: U there?

Julia stared at the line for seconds, debating whether to click it off and ignore it, or admit to being awake this early in the morning. Ah, what the hell. Tanya was her best friend.

J.T.: Yeah, I’m here. Just writing. I’m close to deadline.

Teats: Oh, cool. You got them doing the nasty yet?

Sighing, Julia reminded herself that Tanya was really her very good friend. Although, it wasn’t easy being friends with someone as perfect as Tanya. Her IM name said it all. Tanya Teats. She’d earned the nickname from the football team in high school, and of course it had carried through to her adult years. How could it not? Tanya had made the most of her teats, even showing them off in Playboy for an astonishing amount of money. Much more than a midlist romance author earned.

Teats: So, you got them going at it hot and heavy, or what?

J.T.: I may write hot, but I write historicals, Tanya. It takes some time to get them into bed. You know, they had that thing called propriety.

Teats: Well, that sucks. How long does it take for your hero to get his gal in the sack?

Julia gritted her teeth. It didn’t matter how many times she explained things to Tanya, she would never get it. Tanya would never understand the fact that it just wasn’t heroic for a protagonist to jump his lady in a carriage on page ten. It just wasn’t done. Why ever not? I can remember numerous ladies who were willing to break the rules for love.

The voice was astonishing real, not to mention utterly superior sounding. Julia looked over her shoulder and around the room. No one was there. She really needed to stop drinking Baileys.

J.T.: Look, Tanya, did you need something? Sorry to be so blunt, but I really have to get to work. I’m way behind, and my deadline is looming. My career is on the line, here. If this book doesn’t sell well, Sapphire Publishing is gonna cancel my contract.

Teats: You worry too much. Hey, you’re not still stewing over this Scott thing, are you? I hope not. He’s an A-1 asshole, you know.

Julia grinned. Leave it to Tanya to be succinct.

J.T.: Nah, I’m ok. He wasn’t the right one. I know that now. At least you’ve come to your senses in that matter. I was positively certain you would marry the bumbling fool

Teats: You need to come to New York. You need to get laid. Sweet Heaven, your friend is so vulgar.

Okay, this voice in her head was getting very annoying. Ignoring the musing of her character, Julia tried to focus on her virtual conversation.

J.T.: No more men, Tanya, do you hear me? I’m swearing off them for a while....well, at least till I get this book finished. Besides, it’s Christmas, and you’re going to Paris for that photo shoot.

Teats: Why don’t you come with me, Jules? What are you doing, having turkey with your parents again? C’mon, live a little.

Julia bristled at the thought of spending another Christmas bored silly and depressed. Tanya was right, stuffing herself on turkey and plum pudding had been the extent of her festive plans. Although, she could spring for the money it would cost to her fly to London and attend Sapphire Publishing’s yearly Christmas ball. But she would be alone, and she wasn’t sure the holidays were the best time of the year to spend in solitude.

Why not visit Harrow Lodge in Kent? It was always one of my favorite places to visit. I am certain that you will find something useful and romantic there for your stay. After all, there is a great deal of family history there, and I think you will find dozens of wickedly amusing stories. Even some about me.

A research trip. The idea had merit.

Teats: Anyway, big news. I’m meeting this totally adorable guy for breakfast and mimosas. He’s from England and he speaks with an accent and everything.

J.T.: Yeah, well, most people from England talk with accents.

Teats: No, really, Julia, I think he could be the one. He’s so cute, and ripped.....my God is he ripped.

J.T.: Ripped? Don’t tell me you’ve already done him.

Teats: Nah, he’s too much of a gentleman. We met in the gym at the Ritz. He was lifting weights. I was on the treadmill. No shirt. Totally ripped.

How many times had she heard similar things come out of Tanya’s mouth? Frankly, she was tired of hearing it. Not to mention the fact she was bloody jealous. Tanya always managed a healthy glow whenever she worked out. She, on the other hand, always looked like something the cat dragged in.

Teats: No shirt, totally ripped!

Sighing, Julia typed whatever came to mind.

J.T.: No wonder you caught his attention--no shirt.

Teats: No. HE wasn’t wearing a shirt. Julia, are paying attention here? Are you drinking or are you writing while we’re chatting?

Writing, no. Drinking, yes. God, just the thought of Tanya working up a sweat on the treadmill made her reach for her cup that was unfortunately empty. Tanya with the big breasts, little waist, and flat stomach. Tanya with her pale blond hair and blue eyes. Tanya, the perfect female specimen.

Julia looked down at the blue pants of her ‘sleeping princess’ lounging pj’s and the ratty white terry robe covering them. Julia of the widening butt and full thighs. Julia who was always a touch too plump. Julia who had never had any success with men. Julia who couldn’t hold a candle to Tanya.

Teats: Oh, that’s the buzzer. He’s here.

J.T.: Cool, she wrote, but her heart wasn’t in it. Tanya would be spending the day wining and dining while she sat alone in her candlelit study, struggling to conjure up a sex scene between two imaginary people. God, her life was spiralling to nowhere.

J.T: Oh, before you go, what’s his name?

Teats: Brock.

Brock. She liked it. Strong. Masculine. A touch old sounding. Good hero’s name.

Teats: He’s in publishing. Gotta run, girlfriend. Good luck with the book. And please, forget that asshole Scott. You’re better off without him.

J.T.: Have fun

Teats: Oh, I intend to. Mr. Publisherman won’t know what hit him once he gets a look at Tanya’s Ta-Ta’s.

Julia stared at the grinning smiley icon flashing back at her. Tanya’s Ta-Ta’s? And people had the nerve to say romance writers wrote bad prose? With a smirk, she clicked off the IM conversation, and started reading the opening of her book. She had just finished the last line when the phone rang.

“Hello?” she answered, stretching the phone cord from her bookcase to the desk while managing to knock off a few coffee cups and an empty can of coke in the process.

“Jules?”

Scott. Damn. She didn’t need this now. “Hi, Scott.”

“Hi. Um....” Scott cleared his throat, and Julia pretended to blow some imaginary dust off her keyboard. “You working?”

“Yeah. My deadline is in four weeks.”

“How’s it going? With the book, I mean.”

“All right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The static on the phone line hummed as the silence stretched on. Mercifully Scott ended it. “So, um, Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“Ah, did I leave my golf clubs there?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, yeah, he’d left them, and she’d promptly taken a little drive out to the lake and deposited them into the waves.

“I can’t find them.”

“Well, I haven’t seen them recently.” Last time she’d seen them they’d been sinking their way down to the bottom of Lake Erie.

“Mind if I come over and look?”

Her fingers shook around the phone. Don’t come over, don’t come over, her mind chanted. “Whatever.” So much for listening to her inner voice.

“What do you need them for if you don’t mind me asking? There’s two feet of snow outside. I hardly think the driving range is open.”

“Jules, we need to talk.”

“I thought you already said everything you wanted to say.”

“I told you I didn’t mean to say those things. I was in a bad mood. You know how work gets to me.”

“I don’t recall you mentioning anything about work. But I do remember you had a plenty to say about me.”

“Jules, you know I didn’t mean it. Look, I shouldn’t have said it, sweetheart. I know it was wrong. It’s just that I bought you that membership to the gym and when they told me you hadn’t been there yet to set up your program I saw red. I shouldn’t have lost it, I know that. Honey, lets start over. I miss you.”

And do you miss my fat ass, too, she wanted to shout, but she wouldn’t stoop to his level. Come hell or high water, Scott Marchand would never know how much he’d destroyed her fantasies and shattered her fragile self-esteem.

“You know what I need the golf clubs for, Jules? I’m going to the Caribbean for Christmas. You know, to get away. I thought you might want to come.”

Oh sure, book a trip to the islands when they were no longer together. She had begged and pleaded with him for over a year to take her on such a trip, but he’d flatly refused. Tanya was right, he was an ass.

“Look Scott. I gotta run. I’ve got a deadline to meet. Can we talk about this some other time?”

“What about what I need? It’s only about you, isn’t it Julia?”

“It is now. Bye, Scott.”

* * * *

“Hi there.”

Brock Maitland stared at the buxom bottle blond behind the door. Inside the apartment he could see a silver Christmas tree decorated with blue and purple balls. A jazz recording of Silent Night played softly in the background . She really wasn’t his type, but what the hell, he hadn’t had sex in months. And sex was all this chit was good for.

“You want to come in?”

He smiled, trying to ignore the way her leather dress creaked with her every movement. He’d always hated leather on women. What ever happened to chiffon and silks and corsets, for that matter? Good God, he’d give a million pounds to find a woman wearing a corset. And not one of those trashy things found on-line or in a catalogue. But a real one, with expensive French silk and lavish embroidery. Something made by a modiste who outfitted the ton. Something that Fiona would have worn.

“Drink?”

He nodded and forced aside thoughts of Fiona. No use dwelling on that particular memory. He’d have many nights to ruminate on his affair with Fiona Montgomery--hell, an endless lifetime of nights.

“Champagne and orange juice?”

He grimaced. One thing he hated about living in the twenty-first century besides the fact the women dressed like Haymarket Whores was the liquor. He hadn’t come across a decent brandy or champagne since.....since, well, it must have been 1900, in Russia.

“Well?” his host asked, holding a magnum of champagne and a carton of orange juice. “Or would you rather we skipped drinks and went for the main course?”

“Water,” he said, clearing his throat. Jesus, what was he doing here with a creature such as Tanya? He hated women like this. He was the man, he should be the aggressor. In his world the man was the hunter and the lady, if Tanya could be called such, would be the prey. Now the tables were turned and he didn’t like it one bit. It certainly didn’t make his cock rear to attention. No doubt Tanya thought that a flash of ass and a glimpse of saline enhanced breasts would make him hard as iron.

“So,” she said, flopping down beside him on an oversized couch, sending the tree ornaments jingling against one another. “What do you want to do?”

He really shouldn’t be here. He hated this, this constant hunger, the impossible search for someone he could never find. Damn his body for having needs.

Tanya tucked her red painted toes beneath her legs and inched closer to him. Her mammoth breasts, which he knew were enhanced, rubbed the shoulder of his sports jacket. He loved breasts--the bigger the better. But he liked them natural. He liked to squeeze and mold them, to feel the heat in his hand. Fake breasts always felt cold. It could be 110 degrees, and Tanya’s tits would still be cold as ice.

Clearing his throat he tried to ignore the way Tanya was threading her fingers through his hair. Looking about the room, he tried to find something to remark upon. “Who’s this?” he asked, picking up a picture that turned out to be a mini-photo album.

“Oh, that’s Trish. She’s a good friend. Those are pictures of her wedding.”

“She had a costume wedding, did she?” He noted the familiar French neckline. It was close, but not an exact replica. He ought to know. He’d had more than his fair share of experience disrobing Regency ladies.

“Trish is totally into that Pride and Prejudice thing. Not my bag, but it was fun. That’s me,” she said, pointing to the first picture in the album.

“I recognize you.” How could he not, she had a cleavage line up to her chin.

“Must be my face.”

“Something like that.”

“And that’s Trish’s husband.”

“Ghastly knot,” he couldn’t help saying. “Who tied the poor man’s cravat?” He would have dismissed his valet in a heartbeat had the servant sent him out amongst the ton wearing such a getup.

“Oh, I don’t know who tied it. Some guy, I suppose.”

He snorted. How articulate of Tanya. Getting information out of her was going to be as difficult as cheating at cards at White’s. But he knew she had the information he needed. Something had drawn him to Tanya. He couldn’t deny it. Like a vampire was attracted by blood, he was drawn to something about Tanya. Why, in God’s name, he hadn’t a clue, but there it was. He had to see her today.

Tanya snuggled closer and rested her chin on his shoulder, pushing her breasts into his arm. Ignoring her, he continued to flip through the pages, stopping at a group shot of the wedding party. He skimmed the faces with a detached eye and was about to turn to the next photo when something stopped him.

His heart, which normally beat at sixty a minute, trebled. His blood, which was always slightly lower than the normal 98 degrees instantly heated up. Only one person had ever made him feel this way. His eyes scanned every face until he at last saw her. Her. Fiona.

“Who is she?”

Tanya raised her chin and looked at him quizzically before following his finger. “Oh, that’s just Julia.”

“Just Julia?” he nearly choked, heart beating frighteningly fast. “Tell me about her.”

Tanya shrugged and turned the page. He had the almost uncontrollable urge to take the tart by her shoulders and shake her till the information he wanted fell out of her mouth.

“What do you want to know? She lives in a small town in Ontario. That’s where I’m from too.”

He didn’t give a damn where Tanya was from. She could have been spawned in hell for all he cared. He wanted to know about her friend.

“Julia is a romance writer. She’s sort of struggling right now.”

“How?”

Tanya looked at him again and he fought for control. He couldn’t make the chit jealous or else he’d never get any information out of her. But he now knew what drove him to come to Tanya’s this morning. He was close, so very close to finding her. His soul mate.

“She’s struggling with her career. Her publisher is threatening to revoke her contract if she doesn’t sell through on this next book. And then there’s Scott.”

“She’s married?” His heart suddenly stopped and dropped to his stomach. Good God, no, she couldn’t be married. Not now, not after he’d just found her again. She wasn’t supposed to be married. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The old gypsy had told him what would happen. When she had placed her magic spell upon him she damn well hadn’t mentioned anything about finding his long lost love only to discover she was married.

“Nah, she’s not married. She was engaged to him, but he called it off. Said she was getting fat and he was tired of competing with her characters for her time and affection.”

Brock blinked then looked down at the picture. “Fat?”

Tanya turned the page to a single photo of Fiona--Julia. “Well, she kind of has put on the pounds. She always was a bit on the plump side, you know,” Tanya drawled as she fluttered her lashes at him, “at least compared to me.”

“I don’t know,” he said, staring at the woman smiling back at him. “I find her rather attractive.” Her face certainly was, and her breasts most certainly were. All natural there, Brock inwardly smiled.

“Well, Scott was right, but he shouldn’t have told her he didn’t want to be with her anymore because of her body. He could have at least told her he’d found someone else.”

Brock fought the urge to trace Julia’s smiling face with his finger. How she must have felt to hear the worthless Scott say such things to her. She was beautiful with a face that was innocent yet sensual. Her body, what he could see of it, was voluptuous and womanly. Her Regency gown looked as though she had walked straight out of Almack’s, and her hair, all pulled up and dangling in ringlets, made him ache to run his fingers through the curls, dispelling all the pins.

There were many men who coveted the sort of fake beauty that Tanya ascribed to, but he was not one of them. He wanted his women to look like women. He’d always preferred buxom and voluptuous to straight and skinny. Julia the romance writer was every inch the woman he desired.

“So,” Tanya purred, closing the album. “What do you want to do?”

“Why don’t you finish getting ready,” Brock suggested, bolting from the couch and stepping a precautionary foot away. “Then we’ll grab something to eat.”

Tanya pouted, then shrugged. “All right then. Is this ok?” she asked pushing out her breasts while she smoothed her hands down her leather dress.

“I thought we might go somewhere a little less ... formal,” he muttered, already thinking of ways to ditch Tanya. She pouted then shrugged and he watched her sway out of the room and into a hall.

“I’ll be in the washroom, getting changed. Help yourself to anything you want.”

“Great,” he called over his shoulder while he rifled through the photo album and removed the picture of Julia from its protective plastic. With great care he put it in his breast pocket and searched the drawer of the end table beside the couch. Cigarettes, a lighter, pens, scraps of paper, some hair elastics. Bingo. Tanya’s little black book. Julia....Julia, what, he thought as he thumbed through the pages. Like a mad fool he rushed to the J’s and nearly shouted his success when he read Julia Taylor. Tanya was thorough if she was anything. All there in black and white was Julia’s vital statistics. Address, phone number, email addy, even her birth date. To him it was like winning like the lottery.

Ripping out the page, he shoved it into his jacket pocket and looked around the room. In a corner sat a small wood desk with a computer, the screen framed in garish gold and silver Christmas garland . An IM square with the conversation still showing, blinked at him. Hearing water turn on in the bathroom and figuring he had a few minutes, Brock sat down and read the screen.

J.T. had to be Julia. He read the line about deadlines and knew it was Julia. He owned his own publishing company, he knew enough about authors and their deadlines. He grinned when he read the bit about historical propriety--boy did Julia have a lot to learn. There wasn’t going to be anything remotely resembling propriety when he finally got his hands on her. This hero didn’t give a bloody farthing about appearances, he only wanted Julia and he’d get her any way he knew how.

He came to the end and was disappointed. She was witty and smart. Hell, he’d even laughed aloud at her crack about his accent. God, he missed her, or at least he missed the person she used to be.

He’d wondered what it would be like to find Fiona, had dreamt of this day. And now he was unsure of how to proceed. Would she know him? Did she--Julia, that is--have any inkling that she belonged to a man who was over two hundred years old?

What if she wanted nothing to do with him?

The water was still running in the bathroom and Brock looked down at the keyboard. With a grin he looked up at the screen and gave into temptation. What would it hurt? And he wanted so desperately to say something to her. He’d waited for this moment for over two hundreds years.

Hey sweetheart, it’s been a long time, but I’ve finally found you. He poured out his heart in two minutes. When he heard the taps in the bathroom shut off, he hurriedly signed off. Sweet dreams, baby. We’ll be together again soon. Very soon. Then he clicked off the screen and bolted for the door before Tanya could lay her hands on him. He reached for his keys on the sofa table and noticed a paperback beside them. He picked it up and flipped it over to the front cover. ‘Beyond Seduction’ by Julia A. Taylor. Brock smiled slowly while he weighed the book in his hand. Julia A. Taylor had absolutely no idea just how far beyond seduction this was going to turn out to be.

With a low whistle, Brock let himself out of Tanya’s apartment, happier than he’d been in over two hundred years.