Serena's Magic by Heather Graham Page B

“Look closely at the hands.”
    Serena peered closely at the canvas once more. One of the elegantly folded fingers bore a ring, and as Serena narrowed her eyes, she realized that the ring was formed of a delicately carved E .
    Serena sat back on her heels and glanced at Marc. “It’s something, all right,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it’s appeared now, after all these centuries—if it’s authentic, that is. Where did Mrs. Lund say she got it?”
    Marc laughed. “She’s had it for years and years, but didn’t know it—it was painted over. Her nephew is an art student—he told her about a month ago that he believed that there was a painting beneath the seascape she thought she had. They were both quite excited—Mrs. Lund thought she might be harboring a masterpiece. She was quite disappointed to discover she wasn’t holding a Raphael or the like. Eleanora’s artist was an unknown, I’m afraid. It’s rather surprising that the portrait was painted at all at that time!”
    Serena nodded vaguely and shrugged. “I would have it authenticated anyway, if I were you. Not,” she added dryly, “that I think you paid Mrs. Lund an exorbitant sum.”
    “Fifty bucks!” Marc laughed.
    “Marc,” Serena complained, “that’s highway robbery! How could you do that to the poor woman?”
    “Poor woman! She’s loaded! And I’m a struggling author—”
    “That’s not the point—”
    “And you’re missing the point! Serena, that is you! Aren’t you feeling tingles?”
    Serena sighed with clenched teeth. “Marc—I don’t know what you’re getting at, but that isn’t me. I grant you the resemblance is startling, but don’t go getting on one of your kicks. If anything—” She broke off as the doorbell began to ring.
    “I’ll get it,” Marc murmured dourly.
    From her crouched position in the hallway, Serena watched as Marc opened the door.
    To her horror she saw that it was the guest who had first disrupted her entire life, then added insult to injury by stealing even her sleep with the audacity of being in her house.
    He had apparently been jogging. A leather band held slick wet hair from his brow, and he was clad in a pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Little of his astounding physique was left to the imagination, and yet he was a man apparently unaware of his remarkable assets. He was leaning against the doorframe breathing heavily, his bronze skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration as Marc opened the door.
    Serena felt her own breath catch; the picture had erased him from her mind for a heaven-sent interlude, but now a wave of new horror and humiliation washed over her like an entire ocean. She had spent part of her sleepless night wondering how she would deal with him when she saw him again, and how she would deal with his inevitable meeting with Marc. But surely Marc would recognize him only as the stranger in the restaurant, and he was a stranger. Surely a stranger wouldn’t say anything in front of Marc, especially when that stranger was apparently well versed in one-night affairs.
    In those few seconds her mind spun so quickly it was almost as if everything that happened did so in slow motion.
    Marc didn’t even recognize him as the stranger in the restaurant. He took one look at the he-man build and started to absently close the door with a casual, “Deliveries to the rear, please.”
    A hand came out to stop the door from closing. “Excuse me—I’m not delivering anything.”
    Serena would have laughed at the noticeable irritation in the painfully civil protest except that she was feeling pathetically unnerved. Her blood had seemed to heat at the sound of his voice; her hands became instantly clammy. She had to concentrate merely to stand, and then, once she was on her feet, she found herself plunging in and nervously chattering at a frantic pace.
    “Marc, this is, uh, Dr. O’Neill. He’s taken the third guest room for the summer. Dr. O’Neill, I’d like you to meet a