Finn leaned back suddenly. He lowered his head, and looked at her again. "You know what?" he said softly, a husky sound that was as much caress as apology, "You're right. And I'm sorry. I was acting like a jealous jackass. It's just that I woke up, and you were gone." He hesitated, his jaw twisting. "After last night. When you said that you'd leave me before you'd leave Salem."
"I didn't mean that the way it came out, Finn," she said earnestly. "I just thought that if… if I were going to have these nightmares and wake up screaming… and I wasn't with you, well, then, no one could accuse you of doing anything."
"Megan, they can accuse away." He hesitated, features still tense, pained. "Megan, I'm still one insecure asshole. And I don't think I could bear it if you left me again."
A slow smile curved into her lips. A damp hint threatened behind her lids. He was her life, everything she wanted in life.
But she didn't intend to burst into tears in the coffee shop, or even get more carried away with letting him see just how completely she was in love with everything about him, how desperately she needed and wanted him, always, in her life.
"How on earth could you ever be insecure?" she asked lightly, leaning back some and studying him as if she did so objectively. "You walk into a room, and all eyes turn on you. Women drool in your wake, you know," she finished, and she was only halfway teasing.
His fingers brushed over hers. "Because there's only one woman I want drooling in my wake."
There was still that something about him… he just had it all. The size, the smile, the eyes… the way he moved. Even the music. She wondered if she'd be this desperately attracted to him all her life.
"You could have denied women drool in your wake, you know."
"Well, I would have, but I've been taught that perception is nine-tenths of the law. Therefore, if that's your perception… hell, I wouldn't want to change it."
"Um, I see," she murmured, then frowned, realizing that his arms were still taut, and held close to his body. And beneath one of them, something was sticking out. "Hey, what are you holding?"
"What?"
"What do you have clutched to your chest?"
He frowned, then seemed to realized that he was holding a book. "Shit!" he muttered.
"What?"
"I just stole a book. From your cousin's shop," he said sheepishly.
"You stole a book from Morwenna?" she inquired skeptically.
"By accident. Hey, I forgot to tell you—we were written up, nationally, yesterday. Remember the reporter who came to the jazz club? Seems she wrote more—a little Halloween entertainment-across-the-country article, and we—and Salem, of course—were the main focus."
"What does that have to do with the book?"
"Well, that's what's weird—and why I walked out with the book by accident. It's by the same woman."
He handed Megan the book, backside up, and tapped on the author photo. "See?"
Megan, looking at him, halfway grinning, slowly arched a brow. "This woman gave us great national exposure, and so you stole her book?"
"I took it by accident, I told you. Sara was there—making me feel all creepy—and I kind of hurried out."
"Ah. Sara was making you feel creepy? Strange. I get the feeling Sara would like to make you feel something else."
"Hey—who is being jealous now?"
She wanted to smile. She couldn't. "Me. But oddly enough… I think I'm right. I didn't say that you would respond, only that I think Sara… is just strange. It's as if she can't keep away from you."
"It's my charm."
"Of course."
"I can eat garlic, or wear a cross, to keep her away from me."
"I don't think that crosses do anything against horny Wiccans."
He laughed, leaning back, threading his fingers lightly through her hair. "Probably not. Can I suffice it to say that I really, truly, find her creepy?"
"That will do pretty well. But it's strange, isn't it? Mike's girl acted that way about you, too. That Gayle Sawyer. She stared at you as if you were Michelangelo's David."
He leaned close to her. "Maybe we're not that different."
"Hm. I forgot to check out just how well hung that statue was."
"Megan, I promise you, I'd sure as hell never let Sara get that close. You've just become too accustomed to my aura of raw sexuality."
A shiver seized her suddenly. No, that's certainly not it at all, she thought, but had no intention of bringing up the strange volatility of their nights. Not now.
"Don't worry any," she assured him. "If Sara gets too… too… close, I'll deck her for you."
"You?"
"I preach nonviolence, and I believe in it. But I'll still deck her," she assured him.
"I think I can manage."
"Hey, you like to protect me at a bar!"
"Right, and you get mad when I do."
"Because drunks can be handled."
"They can be handled better when they see a six-foot-something bigger guy at your side."
"And Sara will be handled if I deck her—only if she wants to get too close."
"If she's smart, she'll keep her distance," he said gravely.
Megan smiled, but was startled to feel a moment's sheer possessiveness. It wasn't like her. Maybe it was the banter, which was dangerous, because the trust was so important between them now. And maybe it was just the light, quick conversation as well, but she also felt…
Like crawling over her husband, then and there. Doing what Sara wasn't at all allowed to do.
"You know what?" she said, whispering close to his ear. "It's early. Actually, for people with a nighttime work schedule, it's very early. The afternoon and early evening stretch ahead."
"You're in the mood for some drooling, are you?"
"Perhaps I could be convinced."
He stood, stretching out his hand. She curled her fingers into his.
A pleasant smell of coffee filled the air around them. Children were laughing at one of the nearby tables.
A waitress impatiently called out an order.
Her husband was grinning, the curl of his lips a bit wicked.
Good wicked.
She felt a surge of longing kick in as if she were being touched already, intimately.
The world was right.
He came around the table and pulled her against him. "I think you are a bit of a witch yourself," he whispered softly.
She felt the oddest desire to protest.
Instead, she stroked his cheek, came on her toes, and murmured suggestively against his earlobe. "Let's go fool around. I'm just dying to see how well, how deeply and completely, you can apologize."
"Watch that tone of voice," he murmured, "or I'll be apologizing far too deeply and completely right here, right now."
Laughing, she caught his hand and hurried ahead of him.
As they left the coffee shop, a little shiver shot through her. She paused for a minute, that odd feeling of being watched searing into her. She paused, turning, looking for the eyes that were surely boring into her back.
Finn was directly behind her, his hands on her shoulders. They warmed her. They seemed to give her a certain strength against whatever tugged at her. Insanity maybe, because the streets were busy, filled with activity, and if someone was standing somewhere, staring at her, she sure as hell couldn't see him—or her.
"Let's—" she began, looking up at Finn, and breaking off. He, too, was searching out the crowd.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head, as if shaking off a feeling as well. His eyes touched down on hers. "I love you. I really love you, you know. And I would die before I ever let anyone hurt you."
She smiled.
The breeze was gentle. The sun was still visible in an autumn sky that was still somehow soft blue, and wonderfully gentle, almost bright.
"I love you… so come on, please, let's hurry. I do hate to drool in the street."
Chapter 10
Darkness came so quickly in October in New England.
Of course, as Megan explained, while they lay curled together, watching the daylight fade through the crack in the curtains, it was even worse in December.
It was the best time they'd had together since they had come here. No dreams had plagued either of them. Megan had been playful, sensual; there had been moments of barely breathing urgency, muscle-knotted soaring, and mind-shattering climax. Intimacy so complete that it seemed no outside force could be noticed, much less intrusive. Their bond, combining hearts and senses, had never seemed so solid, and Finn was loathe for the afternoon to wane, and so, even as the darkness came, they lay together, spent, disheveled, limbs entangled, just watching as that darkness came.
Still entangled, though, the mundane had come into what at first was idle conversation, choices of music for the night, what they didn't want to do again, and what, though they'd done it already, was signature and popular, and therefore, good for the agenda once again. Megan turned to him suddenly, smiling, skimming a damp lock of hair from his forehead, and murmured, "It's almost like being back home again, isn't it?"
He smiled, catching her fingers, languidly teasing them with the tip of his tongue.
"Finn, for real, there's something special this afternoon… and you owe it all to Mike."
He had just been feeling the slow, simmering rise of a renewed erection. Her words deflated him like a popped balloon.
"Mike? Wow. Was he in bed with us?"
She kicked his calf. "No, and if you're going to act like a jealous ass again, I'm going to get up."
"You might want to explain what you're talking about, then."
"He's just so wonderfully logical and pragmatic. I was really starting to worry about the dreams. I confess, when you said you wanted to leave, I wanted to run away from here more than anything in the world. But he was talking about his psychology classes, about the power of suggestion… and I realized, I was having nightmares because I was allowing myself to have them. Listening to old loons like Andy Markham, and whatever else. And, though you don't want to admit it, Mr. Tough Guy, you are subject to the same force of suggestion. So… before going to sleep from now on, we're going to watch game shows. Or old sitcom reruns. Like Gilligan's Island. Or The Cosby Show. Or Lucy!"