There were no streetlights near the cottage, Layla realized later. It was early evening, dusk, and she was standing at the end of her driveway, waving goodbye to the movers, and once they rounded the corner out of sight, she glanced up and down the street curiously. It was a lovely area, quiet, and she knew that very few children actually lived near her. Most of them were a block or two away, so she expected her own block to be fairly chaos-free. There was a streetlight on the corner, but it did very little to illuminate any of her property. That was fine with her. The whole point of not letting the real-estate people clear away all the bushes and other foliage was to foster a feeling of isolation. A streetlight would take away from that, so she decided not to worry about it.
"Hey!" a voice called, drawing Layla's attention to a woman crossing the street toward her. "You're the new neighbor, aren't you?"
Layla chuckled softly to herself. Steel trap of a brain, this one, she mused silently. "Yes," she answered out loud. "Layla Ross."
The woman stuck out her hand and when Layla took it, she pumped her arm almost violently. "Gina Greene," she said. "I live in the green house, over there."
Layla extricated her hand from Gina's grip and massaged her sore elbow. She looked where Gina indicated and laughed. "That should be easy to remember," she quipped.
Gina frowned at her. "Why?"
Layla hesitated a moment, wondering if she should attempt an explanation, then shook her head. Yep, steel trap. "Never mind. Did you need something?"
"Oh no! I just wanted to introduce myself. It's nice to have another woman on the block around my age. Is your husband around?"
Layla shook her head. "I'm not married."
Gina goggled at her. "Not married! Oh that's fantastic. I have a brother I'd love you to meet."
Layla fell back a step at Gina's intensity, thinking to herself that this was a personality that took up a lot of space. She shook her head. "No, thank you, really," she stammered, casting about for a feasible excuse. "I'm engaged!" she blurted, then nearly laughed out loud at the crestfallen expression on Gina's face.
"Oh, that's too bad!" Gina groused, then she broke out in a brilliant smile again, giving Layla whiplash from the speed with which she shifted gears. "That's okay. Maybe you two and me and my hubby could get together for dinner some time."
Wanting desperately to get away now, Layla tried to placate her. "That would be nice," she lied. "Well, I've got a lot to do. It was nice to meet you Gina."
She tried to turn away but Gina grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "Before you go, I thought I should warn you," she whispered, her voice dropping an octave or two, and Layla wondered wildly if she was about to impart the meaning of life.
"What is it?"
"The man who lives there," Gina said, pointing at the big manor next to Layla's cottage. "Stay away from him. They say he's a witch."
Layla did laugh then but stifled it quickly when Gina glared at her.
"I know you think I'm crazy for saying it," Gina said, "but I think it's true."
That's not the only reason I think you're crazy, Layla thought to herself. "I'll keep an eye out," she promised. "I'm sure I'll be fine."
"Just stay away from him," Gina cautioned. "We gals gotta stick together, you know."
Layla breathed a sigh of relief when Gina finally walked away, and with a final glance up and down the block, she turned back toward the cottage.
Halfway up the front walk she felt a cold drop of water on the top of her head and cast her gaze skyward. When had the clouds moved in? she wondered. She'd been so distracted with the move that she hadn't been paying any attention to the weather, and she was surprised to see how gray and angry the sky had become. While she watched, a brilliant streak of lightning stabbed earthward, followed by a sonic boom of thunder. Less than a heartbeat later, the clouds opened up and sheets of rain poured down, sending her scurrying through the front door and into her living room, laughing at herself.
Boxes and crates were scattered through the room, and she knew she should get started at unpacking. Just the thought of all the work ahead of her made her tired—and hungry! she realized when her stomach growled irritably. A little dinner first, she thought. Then she remembered that the kitchen was still in a state of disaster and decided to order in. A little scavenger hunt followed while she tracked down her purse, and before she called for dinner she checked her messages. There were twelve from Kent, text and voice. Should she check them now? She stood there, thinking about it, and then her stomach growled again, making up her mind for her. Kent could wait.
While she waited for her pizza, she decided to try to make some order of the living room, maybe get the television hooked up so she could watch something while she ate. The entertainment center was in complete disarray, and she realized very quickly that she was not going to get everything put together fast enough for that. A quick rummage through the kitchen produced a glass and a can of pop, and she was pleasantly surprised to find ice in the freezer. Dinner passed quickly, in silence, and she stowed the leftovers in the fridge for later.
The storm seemed to even out a short time later, and it faded into the background as Layla concentrated on deciding where everything should go. The recliner there, the sofa under the window, the entertainment center across from the front windows. She figured she'd have to get some decent curtains for those windows to reduce glare on sunny days, which would wash out her television screen and make it impossible to see anything. Distracted, she opened the windows, barely even feeling the light spray of the rain hitting the sill. Mom's painting would look great behind the recliner, she thought, and went to the kitchen for one of the chairs.
Hammer in one hand, nails in the other, Layla climbed up onto the chair. She pounded one nail into place, then tried her best to eye a straight line, hoping that she was right, and hammered the other home. Without getting down from the chair, she leaned down and lifted the painting. It was a landscape, depicting a bend in the river near where Layla had grown up. It had been a favorite swimming area, and her mother had painted it as a graduation present when Layla had gotten her degree. It was the last thing she'd ever created before she died, and it was Layla's most prized possession.
It was heavier than she thought from this angle, and she hefted it up, trying to align the hangar on the back of the frame with the nails she'd already placed. She was so intent on her task she didn't notice the lights flicker. A moment later there was a brilliant flash of light from outside, and the smell of ozone, followed immediately by a resounding crack of thunder, and the lights went out completely.
Taken by surprise, Layla fumbled the painting and it slid out of her hands, dropping four feet to the floor. She nearly fell off the chair lunging to catch it, and cursed eloquently when she heard the glass break. Trying not to cry, she forced herself to carefully climb down from the chair. There was little to no illumination from outside so she stumbled over boxes a few times as she made her way out of the living room toward the kitchen.
The foyer was a little better lit she noticed as she passed through. The windows on both sides of the house and the skylight overhead let in a little more of the outside light. She dug into one of the boxes, looking for her flashlight. Towels, pans, oh! here's my lighter! she thought, and pocketed it—but where's that damn flashlight? She reached deeper into the box and was feeling around at the bottom, getting frustrated, when she realized someone was knocking at the front door. Straightening up she blew an errant lock of golden hair out of her face and went to answer. Figuring it was Kent, she pulled the door open without looking.
"I told you I'd call you later—" she started, but interrupted herself when she realized it wasn't Kent on the front step. The man standing there was unlike any she'd ever seen in person before. Now Kent was handsome, someone she'd always figured was out of her league, but this man put Kent to shame. He was tall, taller than Kent, and his body was lean and wiry, though still obviously very strong. He was wearing a pair of black denim jeans which hugged his hips enticingly, and a white button-up shirt. It was soaked through, clinging to his skin, revealing the sculpted muscles of his broad chest, the flat plane of his abdomen, and Layla could swear her mouth was watering. With great effort, she lifted her gaze from his magnificent torso. His face was classically handsome, a square jaw with a dimple, high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and the clearest, deep royal-blue eyes she'd ever seen in her life. He shoved a hand through his wet, ebony hair and she realized she was standing there staring at him like an idiot.
"Can I help you?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound as stupid as she felt.
"I live next door," he told her. "I heard a crash and wanted to be sure you're all right."
She frowned at him. "What? Oh! I dropped a painting. I'm fine."
He glanced over his shoulder at the pouring rain then offered her a smile that nearly knocked her off her feet. "Could I step inside? It's a little damp out here."
"Oh! sorry, yes," she said, stepping back and opening the door wider. "Come on in."
He took a step over the threshold and there was a sudden shift in the air, like he filled up the room the moment he entered it. Layla's heart skipped a beat and she had the sudden wild urge to run, but she couldn't decide if it was toward him or away from him. Shoving the impulse aside, feeling even more like an idiot now, she went back to the box and retrieved one of the dish towels she'd found. She smiled and handed it to him.
"Sorry it's so small," she said. "I'm not sure where all my stuff is yet."
"It's fine," he assured her, and used the towel on his hair, which was dripping down his face. "I'm Nicolas Thorne."
"The witch?" Layla blurted, then felt her face redden in embarrassment when he looked at her, one eyebrow cocked in question. "Sorry," she said quickly. "I had a visit from the local gossip-monger earlier. She told me people think you're a witch. It was the first thing that popped into my head, and out it came." She pressed her lips together. "I'm babbling, aren't I?"
He smiled at her again and her knees threatened to turn to water. He had the most perfect white teeth, she thought, then wondered why she'd notice that.
"It's okay," he said. "But I can assure you, unequivocally, that I am not a witch."
She chuckled. "Right, because you're a man, you'd be considered a warlock, not a witch." Shut up! she screamed silently at herself. He's gonna think you're a moron!
"Semantics," he dismissed. "I'm neither. And you are?"
"Oh, I'm not a witch either," she said without thinking, then clenched her jaw, forcibly closing her mouth. "That's not what you meant, is it?" she mumbled, looking everywhere but at him.
He chuckled and normally she'd feel like he was laughing at her, but when she looked at him he was watching her with those amazing eyes and she saw no mocking gleam, no condescension, only warmth, and she knew he didn't think she was stupid. That was a relief.
"I'm Layla Ross," she told him.
He took her hand and her heart nearly jumped into her throat. She was so nervous that part of her wanted to giggle like a lunatic, but she forced herself to remain immobile, and watched with wide eyes as he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Ross," he said gently.
"You can call me Layla," she said, still staring at him.
"Layla then," he agreed. "Could I help you with that painting?"
"What painting?" she asked, her mind blank for the moment, her attention completely on him, then it all came rushing back. "Oh! The painting!" She went back to the box and dug into it again searching for the flashlight.
Nicolas watched her, hoping that his expression was one of gentle amusement. Up close she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in his life, and that was saying something. Her golden hair was still tied back but long, curly tendrils had begun to escape their bonds and were loose around her heart-shaped face. She had a cupid's-bow mouth, her lips the most perfect rose-red, and he could tell it was their natural color. She didn't seem to be wearing any make-up, but she didn't need it. Her dark lashes and brows perfectly framed her dark eyes, giving her an exotic air that made him think of Morocco.
She leaned over the box, unknowingly treating him to a very erotic view, her rounded bottom displayed to perfection in the snug jeans she was wearing. Her body was lean and slender, made for loving, and his body quickened, clenching almost painfully. Quelling his baser instincts, he hoped he still looked mildly amused when she finally straightened up with a triumphant smile on her face and looked at him.
"Found it!" she declared, and clicked the flashlight on and off a couple of times experimentally. "And it works. The painting I dropped is in here."
He followed her into the living room but was forced to grab her arm once or twice when she stumbled over a box despite the yellow beam from her flashlight. She yanked the chair out of the way and almost went to her knees in front of the painting, but Nicolas seized her arm again, pulling her back.
"There's glass all over the floor," he reminded her.
"Right," she said. "I guess I was just in a hurry to check that I didn't damage the painting."
"It's special to you I take it."
"My mom made it for me," she said, nodding.
Nicolas reached past her and retrieved the painting. As he was lifting it he gave it a gentle shake, dislodging the rest of the glass. "It doesn't look like it even has a scratch," he told her.
"You can see that?" she asked and directed the flashlight on the canvas.
With a strange pop and an eerie hum, the lights came on abruptly, flooding the room brilliantly, and she squinted in the sudden brightness, but her eyes adjusted quickly. "Oh, that's better," she muttered, and turned her attention to the painting.
Nicolas' eyes took a moment or two longer to adjust to the illumination and he blinked away tears, ignoring the pain. Thankfully, Layla didn't notice in her urgency to check the painting.
"It is fine," she confirmed, relief evident in her voice. "I'll have to get it re-framed, I guess, before I can hang it up. I'll be right back." She took it from him and carried it into the foyer, propping it against a stack of boxes, then went into the kitchen for a broom and dustpan.
Nicolas moved out of her way when she returned and watched, feeling a little awkward, while she began to sweep up the broken glass. Knowing the answer already, he shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended to look around curiously. "So where's your husband tonight?" he asked.
Layla paused in her work and tilted her head at him, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. "Why is it that everyone thinks I'm supposed to have a husband?" she demanded, wishing she didn't sound so bitchy. "I'm not married." She went back to sweeping, trying to gather the shards into a neat little pile.
"Sorry," Nicolas apologized, backpedaling quickly. "I just figured, as young and pretty as you are, that someone would have claimed you by now."
Layla went still and looked at him in surprise. "Thank you."
He frowned. "For what?" He knew perfectly well what she meant, but he didn't want her know he'd been testing her, attempting to find out how perceptive she really was.
She grinned, hoping she didn't look like a complete dimwit, and shook her head, returning to her task. "Never mind," she dismissed.
Nicolas allowed himself a smile of his own then forced himself to glance at his watch, making it as obvious as he could. Time to go, he told himself. Remember? You weren't going to go anywhere near her, and here you are, playing the helpful neighbor. Go home now, and don't come back. "Has it gotten that late?" he commented. "I really should get home. I've got an early morning tomorrow."
Layla looked at him, trying to hide the disappointment that she knew must be blatantly apparent on her face. "Really? Already?"
"Well I just came over to make sure that you were okay," he reminded her. "Now that I know you are, I should get back."
"Okay," Layla agreed. She propped the broom against the chair and followed him to the front door. "Thanks for taking the time. Not many neighbors would have thought to check."
"It was nothing," Nicolas said, hoping he sounded nonchalant, that the stress he was suddenly feeling was not in his tone of voice. He did not want to walk out that door. He couldn't believe how much he wanted to pull her into his arms, to feel her slender body plaint in submission against his, to bend her back and claim those perfect lips in a hungry kiss. Would she fight him? he wondered idly, Or was she feeling the same thing? Some wild, reckless part of him wanted to find out and he hesitated on the doorstep.
Layla gripped the doorknob, astonished at the feelings washing over her in that moment. Why did she want to grab him by his collar and yank him back into the house? Why did she see herself throwing him down on the floor and pouncing on him, tearing at his clothes...? She gave herself an abrupt, savage mental shake, trying to drive the images out of her mind, but she couldn't help but wonder what he'd look like with his shirt in tatters, hanging from his broad shoulders....
"You should let me make you dinner," she heard herself say, "in thanks."
Nicolas blinked in surprise. "I didn't do anything," he said.
"No really," she plunged on, "you did. If you hadn't come by, I'd probably have sliced myself up pretty good. The last thing I would have wanted was to bleed all over my new house."
Bleed... The word brought completely new images into his mind and his gaze flew to the pulse in her throat of its own accord. Suddenly, he was riveted on that little flutter, obsessed with the scent of her, and he could see himself leaping on her, driving her to the floor, tearing into her tender flesh, gorging himself on her life's essence—back away! he commanded himself. Go! Now! It had been too long since he'd fed and she had no idea how much danger she was suddenly in, how close he was to losing control.
Layla was still talking, and with great effort, Nicolas forced himself to listen to her. From somewhere far away, he heard himself agree to come back the night after next so she could cook him something. Then he found himself walking down her front walk, turning automatically to cross the yard to his house, letting himself in his side door. Safely inside the walls of his own home, he dropped to his knees, his face in his hands, still struggling to get hold of himself. What was wrong with him? It had been a very, very long time since a woman had affected him this way, bringing him so easily to the brink of losing his iron control, without even realizing the effect she was having on him.
Annalissa. Justthinking about her brought the shame, washing over him from out of the past.The regret and self-doubt followed closely behind, as they always did, and heshifted positions, leaning his back against the door. He couldn't let it happenagain. He would not allow Layla to meet the same fate as Annalissa. He wouldhave to leave, go back to Europe. Maybe if he put a continent between them,she'd have a chance.