In Her Rival's Arms. Alison Roberts

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ gather her emotional resources. She turned back to the teenage girls.

      ‘You’ll need a burner to use the essential oils as aromatherapy. We have a good range over here.’ The heavy silver bangles Zanna was wearing gave the movement of her arm a distinctive, musical accompaniment.

      She could feel him looking at her now. A predatory kind of appraisal that should have raised any hackles she possessed but instead, disturbingly, she could feel a very different kind of response. Her skin prickled as though every cell was being stirred. Coming alive.

      ‘How do they work?’ One of the girls was reaching for a burner.

      ‘A small candle goes in the base.’ Zanna risked a quick glance behind her, maybe because she had sensed she was no longer under scrutiny. Sure enough, the man was moving, staring at the objects on display. For a moment, Zanna stared blankly at the object in front of her. What had she been talking about?

      ‘You put water in the bowl above it,’ she managed, ‘and sprinkle a few drops of your chosen oil on the water. As it heats, the scent is carried in the vapour.’

      ‘What do these ones do?’ A dark-haired girl picked up a tiny bottle.

      ‘Those ones are designed to complement zodiac signs. They increase your personal powers.’

      He was watching her again. Listening? Quite likely, given the increase in the strength of scepticism she could sense. Scathing enough to bring a rising flush of heat to her neck. Zanna had always loathed the fact that she blushed so easily and she particularly didn’t appreciate it right now.

      ‘I’m Sagittarius,’ the blonde girl announced. ‘Can I open the bottle and see what it smells like?’

      ‘Sure.’ Zanna moved away as the girls tested the oils. Despite being acutely aware of the movements of the stranger within the shop since he’d entered, she had made no direct acknowledgment of his presence. As far as he was concerned, he had been totally ignored, which was not a practice she would normally have employed with any potential customer. They couldn’t afford to turn away business.

      But this man wasn’t a customer. The dismissive rake of his glance across shelves of ornate candle holders and chalices, stands of incense and display cases of Celtic jewellery, even before the flick of a finger against a hanging crystal prism that sent rainbow shards of light spinning across the ceiling, had confirmed that his mission did not include any desire to make a purchase.

      He didn’t look like someone who might have been drawn in for the refreshments available either. She could imagine him ordering a double-shot espresso to go, not lingering over herbal teas and organic cakes and cookies. Had he even noticed the blackboard menu as he’d raised his gaze? Had he been caught by the play of light on the ceiling from the prism or was he inspecting the intricate pattern of stained glass in the fanlights above the main windows?

      He was moving away from her now, towards the selection of crystal stones in a basket near the window. He was tall. She knew he was over six feet in height because the circular feather and twine dreamcatchers suspended from the ceiling brushed the top of his head as he walked beneath them. His hair was black and sleek, the waves neatly groomed, with just enough length to curl over the collar of a well-worn black leather jacket. His jeans fitted like a glove and the footwear was interesting. Not shoes—boots of some kind. Casual clothing but worn in a way that gave it the aura of a uniform. Of being in command. A motorbike helmet was tucked under one arm.

      Zanna could almost taste the testosterone in the air and it made her draw in a quick breath and take a mental step sideways.

      Maybe those alarm bells had been ringing for a more intimate purpose. Perhaps her intuition had been overwhelmed by the raw sexual energy this man possessed. A subtle but determined shake of her head sent a lock of waist-length copper-coloured hair over one shoulder. She brushed the errant tress back calmly as she moved towards the stranger.

      ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

      Dominic Brabant almost dropped the stone he was weighing in a careless hand. He’d only seen the profile and then the back view of this woman when he’d entered the shop because she’d been busy with her customers. He’d had a good look at that back, mind you, while wrestling with the annoyance that two silly schoolgirls presented such an effective barrier to having a private conversation.

      He could wait. He’d learned long ago that patience could be well rewarded.

      Maybe he would go to one of the small wooden tables, screened by bookshelves, and order one of the teas described on the blackboard menu.

      A ginger tea for its energising properties, perhaps?

      No. He had more than enough energy. The motivation for being here in the first place had been validated in those few minutes he’d had to take, standing out there in the street, untangling the overload of memories and emotions. He could feel it fizzing in his veins and gaining strength with every passing minute. It had to happen. Fate had provided the opportunity and it felt like the inspiration had always been there, just waiting to be unleashed. The desire to succeed was more powerful than any that had preceded his achievements so far in life.

      This was personal. Deeply personal.

      He blew out a breath. Maybe a soothing chamomile tea might be the way to go. He couldn’t afford to make this any more difficult than it had to be. And he wasn’t even sure that this was the woman he needed to speak to. She might simply be a shop assistant who was paid to wear that ridiculous dark purple robe and improbable hair that had to be a wig. Nobody had real hair that could ripple down their back like newborn flames.

      It was just part of the image. Like the flowing clothes and heavy silver bangles. The assumption that she was probably large and shapeless under that flowing fabric and that the hair under the wig was steely grey was blown away somewhat disconcertingly by the sound of her voice at close quarters.

      The witch—if that was who she was, according to the information he’d been provided with—was young and the lilt in those few words created a ripple that was reminiscent of the silky fall of that wig.

      He cleared his throat as he turned to meet her gaze. ‘I’m just looking at the moment, thanks.’

      A flash in her eyes let him know that she recognised the ambiguity as he continued to look at her rather than what was for sale in the shop.

      The sustained eye contact was unintentional. This wasn’t the time to intimidate anyone—especially someone whose co-operation might be essential—but the proximity of the window gave this corner of the shop much more light than the rest of the candlelit interior. Enough light to see the copper-coloured rims around those dark, hazel eyes and the dusting of freckles on pale skin. And the hair was real. Or was it? Nic had to suppress an outrageous desire to reach out and touch the tendril caught on the wide sleeve of the robe. Just to check.

      ‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ Zanna held the eye contact with difficulty. The hint of a foreign accent in the stranger’s deep voice was only faint but it was as intriguing, not to mention as sexy, as her earlier observations. The feeling of connection was more than a little disturbing. How could such an intensity be present so instantaneously?

      And, yes...he was looking for something in particular.

      Something he had promised when he’d been only six years old.

      ‘When I’m big, Mama, I’ll be rich. I’ll buy that big house СКАЧАТЬ