Enchanted Guardian. Sharon Ashwood
rose, leaving money for the coffees next to his half-empty cup. “Then follow me.”
He turned, not toward the door, but to the back wall of the diner. There was a framed poster of Elvis hanging against faded red wallpaper, but no exit Nim could see. Nevertheless, the sorcerer made an elaborate gesture in the air, and then stepped forward—and vanished as neatly as if he’d been sliced out of the world.
A faint internal tug reminded Nim of regret. There had been a time when magic was her calling, the one thing that defined her. And maybe once she would have fought for love, but that was beyond her now. These were just more losses in an endless string of goodbyes.
Nim followed Merlin into his lair.
The next afternoon found Nim at her bookstore. Mandala Books rambled through an old house, piles of new and used volumes overflowing shelves and stacking the stairways like a literary avalanche. The place was bright and clean, but it was crowded. The store was filled with browsing customers and the scent of new ink as the staff unpacked a shipment of paperbacks.
Nim stood behind the front desk, her mind curiously blank after the barrage of unexpected events the night before. Last night’s attack had been painful enough, but Merlin’s spell had hit her like a cudgel. A pounding headache made her queasy, enough that all she wanted was to lie down and whimper. But there was no time to be ill—she was putting her escape plan in motion that very day.
The paperwork was in place so that Mandala Books would transfer to Antonia’s oversight the instant Nim gave the word. In the little while she’d owned it, Nim had revived the business and wouldn’t abandon it without a new caretaker. Jobs depended on the store, as did the many, many loyal customers.
She closed her eyes, her headache pounding as her thoughts scattered like loose marbles. Merlin and Tramar had played their roles in reducing her to a state of confusion, but she really blamed Lancelot. She raised a hand to her lips, fingertips brushing where the knight’s mouth had touched hers. His breath had been hot, his kiss hungry and urgent. By all the stars, what had he hoped to gain with that kiss? Did he believe himself so fine a man that his caress could restore her soul after centuries of loss?
Arrogant fool. She pursed her lips, hiding the movement behind her fingers as she relived the moment. Then she dropped her hand, astonished by her sudden lapse into daydreams. She was overwrought, addled by trauma and Merlin’s magic. She checked for witnesses but thankfully no one was looking her way.
The service desk sat opposite the wall painted with a huge, colorful image that gave the store its name. From there she had a view through the bay window that overlooked the sunny street. At that moment she saw Lancelot walk up the steps, wearing a faded T-shirt and jeans that hugged the muscles in his long, strong legs.
“No, no, no,” she muttered under her breath as he sauntered in. How on earth had he found her store?
“Looking for something to read?” she asked in a bland tone.
“Are you a bestseller?” He leaned on the shelf beside her desk, seeming to take every inch of space around the desk. His T-shirt strained with the movement, showing off the thick muscles of his chest.
“What is that supposed to mean?” She performed a quick visual survey, determining that he was unhurt from the night before. Of course, Lancelot had always been the kind to hide his injuries out of an impractical manly pride. Once, it had driven her into a frenzy.
“You’re the only subject I’m interested in at the moment,” he said, drawing her gaze from his chest to his face. “Not my best opening line, but it’s the truth. We need to talk.”
He was so close, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Again? I thought you’d said your piece last night.”
“Yes, again,” he said, bending down to speak softly. “And it’s about what happened last night.”
“Why? As you can see, I’m fine.”
He was looking at her the way she’d looked at him, checking for bruises—except his eyes heated as they traveled over her form. The corners of his mouth flattened in an expression she couldn’t interpret. “We need to decide where we’re going from here.”
“I’ve moved on.” She straightened the items on the desk, suddenly in need of order. “I can’t go back to the Dark Ages.”
His dark eyes flashed. “I’m not asking you to.”
“Oh?”
“We can do better than that.” He reached out, brushed the back of his rough fingers to her cheek. The contact was electric, sending chills all the way to her toes with a mere graze of skin on skin. That should have been impossible, given what she was.
Needing to take charge of the situation, Nim stepped out from behind the desk. “Let’s have this conversation in private.” She signaled to the staff member stocking books to cover the till.
Lancelot took a step back in response to her crisp tone, but followed her when she led the way up the stairs to a small office. She closed the door and turned to face him. “You saved my life last night. I salute your prowess,” she said, deciding to be blunt. “I think that covers everything that needs saying beyond goodbye.”
He looked uncertain a moment, but then seemed to recover. “I’d rather begin our recap with the fact that you kissed me.”
Her breath caught, but she hid the reaction. “I think that was the other way around. You dragged me into the dark like an apprentice lad at his first May Day Fair.”
“Perhaps, but you kissed me back.”
It was a gentle tease and if she was utterly, mercilessly honest, she had to admit there had been a flash of feeling during that kiss. There and gone, it had passed as swiftly as the sun dancing off a blade—but it had happened. A strange, hollow feeling grew inside her, leaving her with the sense that she might fall into some inner abyss. “Don’t waste your time.”
His fingers skimmed over her shoulders, the touch beginning light and deepening to a caress. She spun away from him before he could see her shiver. She could feel his breath then, warm and strong on the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, she let that strength wash over her. She’d forgotten what comfort there had been in these moments where Lancelot had blotted out all the demands of the world. For a heartbeat, everything was simple, just the meeting of a man and his woman.
He turned her slowly so she faced him once more. When she felt his lips against her brow, she hissed in a breath.
“Hush,” he said, his kisses brushing her nose, then her eyelids.
Her eyes automatically flicked open, needing to see what he was going to do next. His hands caressed her shoulders again, his skin pale against her dark olive complexion. She’d always found the contrast arousing. Lancelot had been exotic, other—the only human she’d ever taken to her bed.
His warmth fanned across her lips, and instinct made them part. But Lancelot didn’t crush her with his kiss this time. Instead, he continued his featherlight touches, teasing her until she leaned in to capture more of his mouth. Then, and only then, did he unleash the passionate eagerness she’d once craved. Her mouth opened under his, responding to his hot tongue. Granted permission, he plundered her.
A skitter of fear reminded her of being face-to-face with Tramar, his mouth just above hers. But this was the opposite of what he’d done. Rather than ripping out her soul, Lancelot was trying to make her whole. For a moment, she let him, waiting for a spark to ignite in her. It had been so long, surely she would combust in an instant. And yet—a ghost of sadness claimed her.
“Take your time,” he said softly. “You’re only just remembering how to be with me.”
“Don’t be arrogant.” She pushed him away.
“I know