Spellbound by Nora Roberts Page A

toward the cliffs. Both his mind and his body were relaxed, limber.
    Logically he knew he should be racing to the nearest psychiatric ward for a full workup. But a lonely cliffside, a ruined castle, a beautiful woman who claimed to be a witch—visions and sex and legends. It was a time and place to set logic aside, at least for a while.
    “It’s a beautiful country,” he commented. “I’m still trying to adjust that I’ve only been here since this morning. Barely twelve hours.”
    “Your heart’s been here longer.” It was so simple to walk with him, fingers linked. So simple. So ordinary. So miraculous. “Tell me about New York. All the movies, the pictures I’ve seen have only made me wonder more. Is it like that, really? So fast and crowded and exciting?”
    “It can be.” And at that moment it seemed a world away. A thousand years away.
    “And your house?”
    “It’s an apartment. It looks out over the park. I wanted a big space so I could have my studio right there. It’s got good light.”
    “You like to stand on the balcony,” she began, then rolled her eyes when he shot her a quick look. “I’ve peeked now and then.”
    “Peeked.” He caught her chin in his hand before she could turn away. “At what? Exactly?”
    “I wanted to see how you lived, how you worked.”
    She eased away and walked along the rocks, where the water spewed up, showered like diamonds in the sunlight. Then she turned her head, tilting it in an eerily feline movement.
    “You’ve had a lot of women, Calin Farrell—coming and going at all hours in all manner of dress. And undress.”
    He hunched his shoulders as if he had an itch he couldn’t scratch. “You watched me with other women?”
    “I peeked,” she corrected primly. “And never watched for long in any case. But it seemed to me that you often chose women who were lacking in the area of intelligence.”
    He ran his tongue around his teeth. “Did it?”
    “Well…” A shrug, dismissing. “Well, so it seemed.” Bending, she plucked a wildflower that had forced its way through a split in the rock. Twirled it gaily under her nose. “Is it worrying you that I know of them?”
    He hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Not particularly.”
    “That’s fine, then. Now, if I were the vindictive sort, I might turn you into an ass. Just for a short time.”
    “An ass?”
    “Just for a short time.”
    “Can you do that sort of thing?” He realized when he asked it that he was ready to believe anything.
    She laughed, the sound carrying rich music over wind and sea. “If I were the vindictive sort.” She walked to him, handed him the flower, then smiled when he tucked it into her hair. “But I think you’d look darling with long ears and a tail.”
    “I’d just as soon keep my anatomy as it is. What else did you…peek at?”
    “Oh, this and that, here and there.” She linked her fingers with his and walked again. “I watched you work in your darkroom—the little one in the house where you grew up. Your parents were so proud of you. Startled by your talent, but very proud. I saw your first exhibition, at that odd wee gallery where everyone wore black—like at a wake.”
    “SoHo,” he murmured. “Christ, that was nearly ten years ago.”
    “You’ve done brilliant things since. I could look through your eyes when I looked at your pictures. And felt close to you.”
    The thought came abruptly, stunning him. He turned her quickly to face him, stared hard into her eyes. “You didn’t have anything to do with…you haven’t made what I can do?”
    “Oh, Calin, no.” She lifted her hands to cover the ones on her shoulders. “No, I promise you. It’s yours. From you. You mustn’t doubt it,” she said, sensing that he did. “I can tell you nothing that isn’t true. I’m bound by that. On my oath, everything you’ve accomplished is yours alone.”
    “All right.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms absently. “You’re shivering. Are you