Do You Believe in Magic? by Ann Macela Page A

Houston Comets. Francie maintained the women played a “purer” form of ball, running plays, cooperating as a team, instead of “hot-dogging” like the men did. Clay, because he discovered he liked arguing with her, defended the men’s style vigorously, extolling the speed, the play above the rim, and the magic of the superstars. They finally agreed to disagree.
    As they rose from the table, Clay asked, “Would you like to go to a Rockets or Comets game some time? The NBA season will be starting soon, and I have a friend who can get us good tickets.”
    “That sounds like fun,” she replied. “I’ve never seen the pros play in person.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    He didn’t mention the implication they’d be seeing each other after the hacker mess was over. Neither did she.
    It was just past midnight when Clay drove up to Francie’s apartment. The witching hour, he thought. Apropos because he was already under her spell, and she wasn’t even a practitioner. He had never been able to talk with a date, practitioner or not, the way he had with Francie. They had covered so many topics. She had interesting viewpoints and cogent reasons for her opinions.
    And to find out, of all things, that under her hard shell of god-awful clothes and computer earnestness lurked a basketball player. He’d have to get her out on a court sometime and see what kind of moves she had. As he rounded the car to open her door, he almost groaned at the thought of their bodies touching, bumping, sliding when one of them went around the other’s guard for a basket.
    But now he had to say good night. His hardening body let him know exactly how it wanted to end the evening. His mind—or something—told him to take it easy. Francie wasn’t ready for it yet, and they still had to concentrate on the hacker problem. Despite her protestations, however, he couldn’t see why he couldn’t have a good-night kiss. After all, he hadn’t agreed to her request. As if in agreement, his magic center vibrated.
    As they walked up the stairs, he glanced across the courtyard at the dark windows of Tamara’s apartment and asked, “Do you think our observer is at home?”
    Francie stuck her key in the lock and opened her door. “I doubt it,” she answered. “She and Kevin usually stay out much later than this.” She stepped inside and turned around toward him, clearly nervous again, clearly debating with herself if she should ask him in.
    He took the decision out of her hands by moving forward, closing the door behind him. She backed up automatically into the dimly lit apartment. He put his hands on her waist and drew her forward. “Time to practice,” he murmured.
    “Practice what?” she asked as her hands went to his biceps.
    “Sweeping you off your feet,” he answered, lowering his head, his gaze fixed on her lips.
    She opened her mouth to protest, but his mouth stopped any utterance and his tongue took advantage of the opening to tease and coax and explore.
    She stiffened at first, but relaxed as he kept the kiss light, tasting, nibbling, sipping. When her arms wound around his neck to draw him closer, he rejoiced. Wary though she might be, she couldn’t resist their attraction any more than he could. Then he deepened the kiss, taking her mouth as he wanted to take her body. The heat between them escalated to a flash point, and Clay felt her take fire in his arms.
    She returned his kiss with one of her own, one that demanded as well as offered, gave as much as took. He answered by wrapping one arm around her waist, pressing them together from thighs to shoulders, while his other hand slid up her back to entangle itself in her hair and send hairpins scattering to the floor.
    She gave a little growling purr, and the sound vibrated through him, reverberating in his very bones. Her scent, a combination of peachy tones and pure Francie, enveloped him, making him so light-headed he would have staggered if not for her support. Her hips