The road to hell, Sam decided, was paved with intentions - and they didn't have to be good. He'd intended to stride back into Mia's life, face her fury, her tears, her bitterness. She was entitled to all of those, and he would be the last to deny it.
He would have accepted her rage, her curses, her accusations. He'd intended to give her the opportunity to vent every drop of resentment she had harbored for him. And, of course, he'd intended then to sweep them aside and win her over.
A done deal, in his calculations, in a matter of hours at best, days at worst. They'd been linked since childhood. What was eleven years compared to a bond of blood and heart and power?
But he hadn't intended to face her cool indifference. Oh, she was angry with him, he thought as he parked in front of the cottage. But overlying the anger was a thick, icy shield. Chipping through that would take more than smiles, explanations, promises, even apologies. Lulu had blasted him, Nell had slapped at him, and Ripley had bared her teeth. Mia had done none of those things, but her response had leveled him as none of the others' had, or could. It stung to have her look at him with a kind of studied disdain, particularly since seeing her again had stirred all the memories inside him, churning them with fresh spurts of lust, longing. Love. He had loved her, obsessively, outrageously. And that had been the root, or one of the many tangled roots, of the problem.
As he turned it over in his mind, he tapped his fingers idly on the steering wheel. He refused to believe she didn't still care for him. There had been too much between them, too much of them for there to be nothing left.
And if there'd been nothing, that spark, that one instant of connection when their hands had touched, wouldn't have happened. He was going to hold on to that, Sam thought as his hands tightened and released on the wheel. Whatever else came down, he was holding on to that one spark. A determined man could build one hell of a blaze from one good spark. Winning her back, doing what must be done, facing what must be faced, would be a challenge. His lips quirked. He'd always enjoyed one.
He would have to do more than chip through Mia's ice. He'd have to get past the dragon - and Lulu was no pushover. And he'd have to deal with the women who flanked Mia: Nell Todd with her quiet disapproval, and Ripley with her infamous temper.
When a man had to wage a battle against four women, that man had best have a plan. And very thick skin. Or he would be ground to dust in a heartbeat.
He'd work on it. Sam swung out of the car, rounded back to the trunk. There was time. Not as much as he might have liked under the circumstances, but there was time.
He hefted two suitcases out of the trunk, started up the walk. Then stopped and took his first real look at what would be his home for the next weeks.
Well, it was charming, he realized. Neither the photographs he'd studied nor his memory had done the cottage justice. It had been white once, as he recalled, and a bit run-down. The yellow paint warmed it, and the flower beds, just sprouting with spring, cheered it. That would be Mia's doing, he imagined. She'd always had exquisite taste and clear vision.
She had always known precisely what she wanted.
Another tangled root for him.
The cottage was quaint, tiny and private, on a pretty corner lot that bled into a small wood and was close enough to the water that the rumble of the sea played through the greening trees. It had the advantage of quiet solitude and the convenience of being an easy walk from the village. An excellent investment, Sam thought. Mia would have known that, too. The clever girl, he mused as he continued up the walk, had become a clever woman. He set his suitcases on the stoop and dug out the house keys.
The first thing that struck him when he stepped inside was the warmth of welcome, the smooth, open hand of it. Come in and make this home, the room seemed to say. There were no lingering sensations or energy spurts from previous tenants.
That would be Mia's doing as well, he was sure. She'd always been a thorough witch. Leaving his suitcases by the door, he took himself on a quick tour. The living room was sparsely but prettily furnished, and split logs had already been laid in the hearth. The floors gleamed, and thin, lacy curtains framed the windows. A female ambience, he thought, but he could live with that. There were two bedrooms, one cozy, the other . . . well, he only needed one. The bath, scrubbed and cheery, was also a narrow box designed to give a tall man with long limbs considerable grief. The kitchen at the back of the house would more than do for his needs. He didn't cook, and didn't intend to begin. He opened the back door to find more flower beds, an herb garden already thriving, and a tidy patch of lawn that slid right into the spring woods.
He could hear the sea, and the wind, and, if he listened carefully, the hum of a car heading to the village. Bird-song, and the playful yap of a dog.
He was, Sam realized, alone. With the realization, some of the tension that had gathered in his shoulders eased. He hadn't understood just how much he craved solitude. It wasn't a commodity he'd been able to claim in great quantities over the last couple of years.
Nor was it something he'd actively sought in the day-to-day scheme of things. He'd had goals to achieve and points to prove, and such ambitions didn't allow for the luxury of solitude. He hadn't understood that he needed to find that serenity of aloneness again, almost as much as he needed to find Mia. Once he had had both whenever he wanted them. And once he had cast them both aside. Now the island he'd run from so fast as a young man was going to give them back to him. He would have enjoyed walking through the woods, or down to the beach. Or driving, he thought, to his old house and seeing his bluffs, his cove, the cave where he and Mia . . . He shook that idea and those memories away. It wasn't the time for sentiment.
There were practical matters to be dealt with. Phones, faxes, computers. The little bedroom would have to suit up as a secondary office, though he planned to base his work at the hotel. He needed supplies, and he knew that as soon as he made his way around the village buying them, word of his return would spread like fire through dry kindling.
He would see what he would see.
Turning from the door, he went back inside to unpack and set his place to rights. Well-meaning friends, Mia thought, were a blessing. And a curse. At the moment, two of hers were crammed into her office.
"I think you should kick his ass," Ripley announced. "Of course, I thought that ten years ago."
Eleven, Mia corrected silently. Eleven years, but who's counting?
"That would make him too important." Nell stuck her nose in the air. "She's better off ignoring him."
"You don't ignore a blood leech." Ripley bared her teeth. "You rip it off and stomp it into a quivering pulp."
"What a pretty image." At her desk, Mia leaned back, studied her two friends. "I have no intention of kicking Sam's ass, or of ignoring him. He's taken a six-months' lease on the cottage, which makes me his landlord."
"You could cut off his hot water," Ripley suggested.
Mia's lips twitched. "How perfectly childish - but however satisfying it might be, I've no intention of pulling silly pranks either. If I did, I'd cut off his water altogether. Why stop at hot? But," she continued as Ripley gave a hoot of laughter, "he is my tenant, and that means he's entitled to everything that's spelled out in the lease. It's business, and nothing more."
"Why the hell is he renting anyplace on the Sisters for six months?" Ripley wondered.
"Obviously he's here to take more personal charge of the Magick Inn."
He'd always loved it, Mia mused. Or so she'd thought. Yet he'd walked away from it just as he'd walked away from her.
"We're both adults, both business owners, both islanders. And though it's a small world here, I imagine the two of us can manage to run our enterprises, live our lives, and coexist with a minimum of fuss."
Ripley snorted. "If you believe that, you're delusional."
"I won't let him into my life again." Mia's voice took on an edge. "And I won't let my life be upset because he's here. I always knew he'd come back."
Before Ripley could speak again, Nell shot her a warning glance. "You're right, of course. And with the season coming on, you'll both be too busy to get in each other's way. Why don't you come to dinner tonight? I'm trying out a new recipe, and I could use the feedback."
"You'll get that from Zack. No need to pamper me or soothe me, little sister."
"Why don't we all go out and get drunk and bitch about men in general?" Ripley perked up. "That's always fun."
"As appealing as that sounds, I'll pass. I have a number of things to do at home . . . if I can get my work done here."
"She wants us to clear out," Ripley told Nell.
"I get that." Nell sighed. It was hard, she thought, to want so badly to help and not know how. "All right, but if there's anything you need or want - "
"I know. I'm fine, and I'm going to stay that way."
She scooted them out, then sat - just sat with her hands in her lap. It was self-defeating to tell herself she would work, or to pretend she could move through this particular day as if it were any other day. She was entitled to rage and to weep, to spit at fate and beat her fists on the face of destiny. But she would do none of those things, those weak and useless things. She would, however, go home. She got to her feet, gathered her purse and the light jacket she'd brought. And as she passed her window, she saw him.
He stepped out of a sleek black Ferrari, his coat a dark swirl around him. He always did like shiny toys, she thought. He'd changed out of his jeans into a dark suit and tamed his hair, though the breeze was already playing with it. As her fingers once had.
He carried a briefcase and strode toward the Magick Inn like a man who knew precisely where he was going and what he meant to do.
Then he turned, lifting his gaze unerringly to where she stood in the window. His eyes locked on hers, and she felt the jolt, the punch of heat that would once have melted her knees. But this time she stood straight, and without a quiver. When enough time had passed for pride, she stepped away from the window and out of his sight.
Home soothed her. It always had. Practically, the big, rambling stone house on the cliff was too much for one woman. But it was, she knew, perfect for her. Even when she'd been a child, the house had been more hers than it had been her parents'. She'd never minded the echoes, the occasional drafts, or the sheer volume of time it took to maintain a house of its size and age. Her ancestors had built it, and now it was hers alone.
She'd changed little on the inside since the house had come into her care. The furnishings here and there, a few of the colors, some basic modernization of the kitchen and baths. But the feel of the house was as it had always been for her. Embracing, warm, waiting.
There had been a time when she'd imagined herself raising a family there. God she'd wanted children. Sam's children. But over the years she had accepted what was, and what wasn't, and had made a nest of contentment.
At times she thought of the gardens as her children. She had created them, taking the time to plant, to nurture, to discipline. And they brought her joy.
And when she needed more than the gentle pleasure they provided, she had the passion and drama of her cliffs, the secrets and shadows of her forests.
She had, Mia told herself, all she needed.
But tonight she didn't wander out to fuss with her flowers or walk to face the sea from her cliffs. She didn't stroll into her forest. Instead, she went directly upstairs, climbing until she was closed inside her tower room.
Here had been refuge and discovery when she was a child. Here she had never felt alone unless alone was what she needed to feel. Here she had learned, and had disciplined, the beams of her own power. The walls were rounded, the windows tall, narrow, and arched. The late-afternoon sun streamed through them in pale gold to pool on the dark, aged wood of the floor. Shelves curved along one wall, and on them were many of the tools of her trade. Pots of herbs, jars of crystals. Spell books that had belonged to those who'd come before her, and the ones that she'd written herself. An old cabinet held other objects. There was a wand she'd made herself, from maple that she had harvested on Samhain when she turned sixteen. A broom, her best chalice, her oldest anthame, and a ball of pale blue crystal. Candles and oils and incense, a scrying mirror. All this and more, carefully organized.
She gathered what she needed, then slipped out of her dress. She preferred, whenever possible, to work skyclad.
And so she cast the circle, calling on her element - fire - for energy. The candles she lighted with a breath were blue, for calm, for wisdom, for protection.
She had performed this ritual before, several times in the past decade. Whenever she felt her heart weaken or her purpose waver. She admitted that if she hadn't done so she would have known Sam was coming back to the Sisters before he'd arrived. So the years of relative peace had their price. She would block him again - block her thoughts and feelings from him, and his from her. They would not touch each other, on any level.
"My heart and mind are mine to keep," she began, lighting incense, sprinkling herbs on still water.
"When I wake and when I sleep. What once I gave with love and free will, I take back to me, and hold calm and still. Then lovers, now strangers without joined destiny. As I will, so mote it be."
With her cupped palms lifted, she waited for the cool flow of serenity, the stream of confidence that would indicate her ritual was complete. As she watched, the cup of herb-scattered water began to shiver. Water lapped against the rim in quiet, teasing waves.
She fisted her hands, fought back her own temper. Focusing her energy, she punched magic against magic. "My circle is closed to all but me. Your tricks are foolish and bore me. Do not enter what's mine
again without invitation."
At the flick of her fingers, the lights from the candles streamed up, lancing to the ceiling. Smoke from them billowed, spread, and blanketed the surface of the water.
Even then she couldn't find her calm, or get a clean grasp of her temper. He would dare test his power against hers? And in her own home?
So he hadn't changed, she decided. Samuel Logan had always been an arrogant witch. And his element, she thought, hating herself when the first tear escaped, was water. In her circle, behind the haze of smoke, she lay down and wept. Bitterly. The island grapevine spread the news fast. By the next morning, the hot topic of Sam Logan had outdistanced every other tendril of gossip.
Conflicting reports had him selling the Magick Inn to mainland developers, expanding it into some fancy resort, firing the staff, or giving everyone a raise.
One thing everyone could agree on was that it was very, very interesting that he was renting Mia Devlin's little cottage. There was no consensus on what it meant, only that it was a puzzler. Islanders, hoping to gather more nuggets, found reasons to drop into Cafe Book or stroll into the lobby of the hotel. Nobody had enough gumption to ask Sam or Mia directly, but there was plenty of watching and hoping for some excitement.
It had been a long, slow winter.
"Still handsome as sin and twice as deadly." Hester Birmingham confided this information to Gladys Macey as she bagged Gladys's weekly supply of groceries at Island Market. "Strolled in here big as life and twice as bold, and said hello to me like we'd just seen each other a week ago."
"What did he buy?" Gladys questioned.
"Coffee, milk, dry cereal. Whole wheat bread and stick butter. Some fruit. We got bananas on special, but he passed them up and paid dear for fresh strawberries. Bought himself some fancy cheese and fancy crackers and some bottled water. Oh, and some orange juice in a carton."
"Not planning on doing any cooking or cleaning for himself from the sound of it." Confidentially, she leaned closer to Hester. "I ran into Hank from the liquor store. He says Sam Logan breezed in and bought up five hundred dollars' worth of wine, some beer, and a bottle of single malt scotch."
"Five hundred!" Hester's voice lowered to a hiss. "You think he picked up a drinking problem inNew York ?"
"Wasn't the number of bottles, but the price," Gladys hissed back. "Two bottles of French champagne, and two of that fancy red wine you-know-who favors."
"Who?"
Gladys rolled her eyes. "Mia Devlin. Heaven's sake, Hester, who do you think!"
"I heard she kicked him out of the bookstore."
"No such thing. He walked in and out again under his own steam. I know that for a fact because Lisa Bigelow was in the cafe having lunch with her cousin fromPortland when he was there. Lisa ran into my daughter-in-law at the Pump 'N Go and told her the whole story."
"Well . . ." Hester liked the first story better. "Do you think Mia will put a whammy on him?"
"Hester Birmingham, you know Mia doesn't do whammies. What a thing to say." Then she laughed.
"But it sure will be interesting seeing what she does do. I think I'll go put these groceries away, then go buy myself a new paperback novel and a cup of coffee."
"You call me if anything develops."
Gladys winked as she rolled her loaded cart away. "You can take that to the bank."
Sam was well aware that tongues were wagging. He'd have been disappointed if they hadn't. Just as he'd expected to read trepidation, resentment, and puzzlement when he called a morning meeting with all department heads at the hotel.
Some of the trepidation eased when it became clear that a mass firing was not on the agenda. And some of the resentment increased when it became clear that Sam intended not only to take an active role in the running of the hotel but to make some changes as well.
"In season we run at near capacity. Off season, however, our occupancy rate drops sharply, often dipping to under thirty percent."