Sympathetic Magic(30)
“So can most witches do that?” Lucas asked, towel still pressed against his head as he settled down on the couch, which wasn’t much bigger than a love seat and creaked faintly under his weight.
“Can’t you?”
“No,” he replied, giving his hair one last blot. He looked down at the towel as if not quite certain what he should do with it, so she let out a sigh and retrieved it from him, then folded it and placed it on a corner of the hearth. “I’ve seen Connor do it, and Angela do it, and of course Damon could. Some of the other Wilcoxes, too, but not all. And the McAllisters?”
“Some can, some can’t.” She shrugged. “I’d say it depends on the strength of your primary talent, but I know yours is fairly powerful, even though it’s not as obvious as some others.” Since she was being forced to play hostess anyway, she asked, “Do you want some hot tea or coffee? You got pretty soaked out there.”
“Coffee,” he said at once, and she wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved or not. It would take longer to make, which meant more time spent away from him in the kitchen, where she could try to get her roiling thoughts together. On the other hand, an offer of coffee usually meant some lingering, as her coffeepot made far more than her teapot did.
Well, not much she could do about it now. She went off to the kitchen, wondering what on earth she’d gotten herself into.
* * *
Lucas watched Margot leave the room, while at the same time trying his best not to seem as if he was watching her. She wore a pair of slim jeans tucked into high black boots and a snug-fitting black sweater, and he couldn’t help but admire the view as she walked away from him.
But then she was out of sight, so he transferred his attention to the room around him. Unlike Rachel’s apartment, the chamber where he sat was almost plain, each item in it clearly chosen to be in one particular place and that place only. Over the fireplace was a plein air–style painting of a stand of cottonwoods. A local artist? Probably. In the center of the mantel was an old copper bowl containing pinecones that smelled faintly of cinnamon, and to either side of that were copper candlesticks with half-burned ivory tapers sitting in them. Wooden blinds covered the windows, and a worn Persian rug in shades of brown and muted blue and rust covered the wooden floor.
There was something peaceful about the place, quietly welcoming…very unlike its owner, he thought with a quick quirk of his lips. It was all very clean and neat, too, which he liked. He could remember a few dates ending badly because he’d gone home with a woman and discovered that her house was a disaster. Maybe that shouldn’t matter, but he liked order, and apparently Margot did, too. And obviously she hadn’t been expecting company, which meant she kept her home like this all the time.
He heard her moving around in the kitchen and wondered if he should have offered to help. Probably not — he’d gotten the distinct impression that she was glad to get away from him to make the coffee. So he’d let her have her space…for now. Their conversation wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
It did hearten him that she hadn’t been able to maintain the lie, hadn’t been able to deny the spark that had flared between them the previous night. At least now he understood why she was so reticent to get involved with anyone, but that didn’t mean he intended to back off. One bad experience shouldn’t be enough to affect your entire life. He wondered why none of the McAllister men hadn’t attempted to approach her after a reasonable period had passed. Yes, she could be a damn prickly woman when she wanted to be, but she was also strong and smart and beautiful. Surely they couldn’t be that cowardly.
No, that was probably too strong a word. But it seemed obvious enough that no one had wanted to make the effort. Lucas would consider that a damn shame, except that their reticence had allowed Margot to remain single all this time. He supposed he should be thanking them for leaving her alone.
She reappeared holding a silver tray laden with one of those old-fashioned cowboy-style coffeepots, a pair of sturdy brown-glazed mugs, and a little pot of milk or cream and a small bowl of sugar cubes.
“I thought you didn’t drink coffee,” he pointed out, even as he lifted a carved geode candle holder out of the way so she’d have room to set the tray down on the table.
“Usually, I don’t.” With the coffee service safely in place, she came and sat down on the couch — at a safe distance, about as far as she could get from him without actually climbing over the sofa’s arm. “This was my mother’s, but she got an automatic coffeemaker when she moved out. I keep it and some fresh coffee around just because Bryce likes it, and sometimes I have meetings for us elders here at the house.” Her mouth tightened for a few seconds, and then she went on, “Anyway, I didn’t have any cream, so I hope you’re okay with milk.”