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thing—other than a shaft of pleasure at the way the dress skimmed around her knees. “If you’re a regular here, maybe you could introduce me to the witch.”
    Brow lifted, she followed his look as he glanced at the blonde, who was finishing up her sale. “Do you need a witch?”
    “I guess you could say that.”
    She turned those wonderful blue eyes on him again. “You don’t look like the type who’d come looking for a love spell.”
    He grinned. “Thanks. I think. Actually, I’m doing some research. I write movies. I want to do a story on witchcraft in the nineties. You know . . . secret covens, sex, and sacrifices.”
    “Ah.” When she inclined her head, clear crystal drops swung at her ears. “Nubile women doing ring dances sky-clad. Naked,” she explained. “Mixing potions by the dark of the moon to seduce their hapless victims into orgies of prurient delights.”
    “More or less.” He leaned closer and discovered that she smelled as cool and dark as a forest in moonlight. “Does this Morgana really believe she’s a witch?”
    “She knows what she is, Mr.—?”
    “Kirkland. Nash Kirkland.”
    Her laugh was low and pleased. “Of course. I’ve enjoyed your work. I particularly liked
Midnight Blood
. You gave your vampire a great deal of wit and sensuality without trampling on tradition.”
    “There’s more to being undead than graveyard dirt and coffins.”
    “I suppose. And there’s more to being a witch than stirring a cauldron.”
    “Exactly. That’s why I want to interview her. I figure she’s got to be a pretty sharp lady to pull all this off.”
    “Pull off?” she repeated as she bent to pick up a huge white cat that had sauntered over to flow around her legs.
    “The reputation,” he explained. “I heard about her in L.A. People bring me weird stories.”
    “I’m sure they do.” She stroked the cat’s massive head. Now Nash had two pair of eyes trained on him. One pair of cobalt, and one of amber. “But you don’t believe in the Craft, or the power.”
    “I believe I can make it into a hell of a good story.” He smiled, putting considerable charm into it. “So, how about it? Put in a good word for me with the witch?”
    She studied him. A cynic, she decided, and one entirely too sure of himself. Life, she thought, was obviously one big bed of roses for Nash Kirkland. Maybe it was time he felt a few thorns.
    “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” She offered him a hand, long and slender and adorned with a single ring of hammered silver. He took it automatically, then hissed out a breath as a jolt of electricity zinged up to his shoulder. She just smiled. “I’m your witch,” she said.
    *  *  *
    Static electricity, Nash told himself a moment later, after Morgana had turned away to answer a question from a customer about St. John’s wort. She’d been holding that giant cat, rubbing the fur. . . . That was where the shock had come from.
    But he flexed his fingers unconsciously.
    Your witch, she’d said. He wasn’t sure he liked her use of that particular pronoun. It made things a bit too uncomfortably intimate. Not that she wasn’t a stunner. But the way she’d smiled at him when he jolted had been more than a little unnerving. It had also told him just why he’d found her dazzling.
    Power. Oh, not
that
kind of power, Nash assured himself as he watched her handle a bundle of dried herbs. But the power some beautiful women seemed to be born with—innate sexuality and a terrifying self-confidence. He didn’t like to think of himself as the kind of man who was intimidated by a woman’s strength of will, yet there was no denying that the soft, yielding sort was easier to deal with.
    In any case, his interest in her was professional. Not purely, he amended. A man would have to have been dead a decade to look at Morgana Donovan and keep his thoughts on a straight professional plane. But Nash figured he could keep his priorities in order.
    Nash waited