How odd they werent in her room.
Rachel wrapped a bath sheet around her and did a quick search of her house for the torcheres, but still couldnt find them. She supposed she had put them upstairs in the guest room and shrugged it off. She had enough candles, and besides, her tub was filling.
She hurried back to her bath, turned off the water, and studied her last spell. This was the one for insurance, the shot at losing her butt, otherwise known as Ben and Jerry.
OUTSIDE, on Slater, the rain had deteriorated into a heavy mist and fog was rolling in. Parked outside her house, below the limbs of an old sycamore tree that badly needed trimming, Flynn watched the windows of Rachels little house.
Hed thought to go to the door to present himself, and was working on a plausible explanation, but he had noticed that Rachel was the sort to leave her blinds open, and there she was, lying on the floor, doing some sort of strange thing with her legs, while on the telly, images of singing Asians flashed across.
Naturally, hed not wanted to disturb her in the middle of whatever it was she was doing, but he really didnt want to sit out in the car like some pervert, either.
While he was debating it, however, Rachel suddenly popped up, turned off the telly, and disappeared into the back. Flynn got out of his hired car, put on his trench coat but then she had reappeared, carrying an enormous book of some sort, put it down, disappeared again, and just as quickly reappeared with an armful of candles. Something told him to wait. Something told him to get back into the car.
He watched, fascinated, as she lit the candles, let down what looked to be a mane of gorgeous, wavy hair from that odd poodle-ear arrangement, and opened that enormous book. She knelt in front of it, studying it for what seemed an eternity, and, he thought, she laughed once or twice.
Suddenly, she was up on her feet.
He couldnt quite make out what she was doing, and she disappeared from his sight for a moment, stooping to the floorbut after a moment, she stood again, with a cloth draped across her shoulders. And then she lit something, another cloth, it looked like, dropped it onto a plate, and began to move in a circle, swinging something over it.
Flynn drew a long and soft breath. Perhaps hed been running on fumes so long that hed lost his mind, but then again, he could swear the bird was doing some sort of witchcraft.
He was so fascinated by it, in fact, that when she had finished her strange little dance and moved to the back part of the house, he did, too, stealing into the darkened area between houses.
Certainly he knew what he was doing was not only lewd but unlawful, and really, he could lose his job and be booted back across the pond were he caught He knew all that, but the man in him was far too intrigued to pay much mind to the laws of this country, and standing between the neighbors rubbish bins as he was, he watched her emerge in a towel from a candlelit bathroom, watched her with that large book again, watched her do some sort of dance around two of those candles, her lovely back exposed, before disappearing into the bath again.
At that point, Flynn regained some of his sensesprecious few, really, but enough to make him move back to his car.
He sat in the drivers seat, staring blindly at the windshield, imagining her, naked, in her bath, doing some sort of witchcrafty thing.
That had been remarkable. That had conjured up all sorts of images of Wiccan-like sex (whatever Wiccan-like sex might be, but at the moment he was beyond randy and ready to entertain any number of theories). That had cast this enticing young woman in a whole new light.
A light that was, strangely, a lovely shade of lavender.
AN hour later, Flynn met Joe at the coffeehouse where the locals liked to read poetry. Joe was seated in the very back, in the shadows. So deeply shadowed, in fact, that Flynn had a difficult time finding him. He sat, asked the girl who followed him for a cup
Rachel wrapped a bath sheet around her and did a quick search of her house for the torcheres, but still couldnt find them. She supposed she had put them upstairs in the guest room and shrugged it off. She had enough candles, and besides, her tub was filling.
She hurried back to her bath, turned off the water, and studied her last spell. This was the one for insurance, the shot at losing her butt, otherwise known as Ben and Jerry.
OUTSIDE, on Slater, the rain had deteriorated into a heavy mist and fog was rolling in. Parked outside her house, below the limbs of an old sycamore tree that badly needed trimming, Flynn watched the windows of Rachels little house.
Hed thought to go to the door to present himself, and was working on a plausible explanation, but he had noticed that Rachel was the sort to leave her blinds open, and there she was, lying on the floor, doing some sort of strange thing with her legs, while on the telly, images of singing Asians flashed across.
Naturally, hed not wanted to disturb her in the middle of whatever it was she was doing, but he really didnt want to sit out in the car like some pervert, either.
While he was debating it, however, Rachel suddenly popped up, turned off the telly, and disappeared into the back. Flynn got out of his hired car, put on his trench coat but then she had reappeared, carrying an enormous book of some sort, put it down, disappeared again, and just as quickly reappeared with an armful of candles. Something told him to wait. Something told him to get back into the car.
He watched, fascinated, as she lit the candles, let down what looked to be a mane of gorgeous, wavy hair from that odd poodle-ear arrangement, and opened that enormous book. She knelt in front of it, studying it for what seemed an eternity, and, he thought, she laughed once or twice.
Suddenly, she was up on her feet.
He couldnt quite make out what she was doing, and she disappeared from his sight for a moment, stooping to the floorbut after a moment, she stood again, with a cloth draped across her shoulders. And then she lit something, another cloth, it looked like, dropped it onto a plate, and began to move in a circle, swinging something over it.
Flynn drew a long and soft breath. Perhaps hed been running on fumes so long that hed lost his mind, but then again, he could swear the bird was doing some sort of witchcraft.
He was so fascinated by it, in fact, that when she had finished her strange little dance and moved to the back part of the house, he did, too, stealing into the darkened area between houses.
Certainly he knew what he was doing was not only lewd but unlawful, and really, he could lose his job and be booted back across the pond were he caught He knew all that, but the man in him was far too intrigued to pay much mind to the laws of this country, and standing between the neighbors rubbish bins as he was, he watched her emerge in a towel from a candlelit bathroom, watched her with that large book again, watched her do some sort of dance around two of those candles, her lovely back exposed, before disappearing into the bath again.
At that point, Flynn regained some of his sensesprecious few, really, but enough to make him move back to his car.
He sat in the drivers seat, staring blindly at the windshield, imagining her, naked, in her bath, doing some sort of witchcrafty thing.
That had been remarkable. That had conjured up all sorts of images of Wiccan-like sex (whatever Wiccan-like sex might be, but at the moment he was beyond randy and ready to entertain any number of theories). That had cast this enticing young woman in a whole new light.
A light that was, strangely, a lovely shade of lavender.
AN hour later, Flynn met Joe at the coffeehouse where the locals liked to read poetry. Joe was seated in the very back, in the shadows. So deeply shadowed, in fact, that Flynn had a difficult time finding him. He sat, asked the girl who followed him for a cup
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