Spellbound

battered him. Had he blacked out? Was he losing his mind? Trembling he reached down and ran his hand over his jeans. There was no wound, and yet he felt the echoing ache of an old scar he knew wasn’t there.
    It was happening again. The river of fear that flowed through him froze over and turned his blood to ice. He forced himself to calm down, to think rationally. Jet lag, he decided. Jet lag and stress, that was all. How long since he’d driven out of Shannon? Two hours? Three? He needed to find a place to stay. He needed to eat. He would find some quiet, out-of-the-way bed-and-breakfast, he thought. Somewhere he could rest and ease his mind. And when the storm had passed, he would get his camera and go for a long walk. He could stay for weeks or leave in the morning. He was free, hereminded himself. And that was sane, that was normal.
    He climbed back into the car, steadied himself, and drove along the winding coast road.
     
    The ruined castle came into view as he rounded the curve. The keep, he supposed it was, was nearly intact, but walls had been sheared off, making him think of an ancient warrior with scars from many battles. Perched on a stony crag, it shouted with power and defiance despite its tumbled rocks.
    Out of the boiling sky, one lance of lightning speared, exploded with light, and stung the air with the smell of ozone.
    His blood beat thick, and an ache, purely sexual, began to spread through his belly. On the steering wheel his fingers tightened. He swung onto the narrow, rutted dirt road that led up. He needed a picture of the castle, he told himself. Several studies from different angles. A quick detour—fifteen or twenty minutes—then he would be on his way to that B and B.
    It didn’t matter that Ireland was dotted with ruins and old castles—he needed this one.
    Mists spread at its base like a river. So intent was he on the light and shadows that played on stone, on the texture of the weeds and wildflowers that forced their way through crevices, that he didn’t see the cottage until he was nearly upon it.
    It made him smile, though he didn’t realize it. It was so charming, so unexpected there beside the ancient stones. Inviting, welcoming, it seemed to bloom like the flowers that surrounded it, out of the cliffside as if planted by a loving hand.
    It was painted white with bright blue shutters. Smoke trailed up out of the stone chimney, and a sleek black cat napped beside a wooden rocker on the little covered porch.
    Someone made a home here, he thought, and tended it.
    The light was wrong, he told himself. But he knew he needed to capture this place, this feeling. He would ask whoever lived here if he could come back, do his work.
    As he stood in the rain, the cat uncurled lazily, then sat. It watched him out of startlingly blue eyes.
    Then she was there—standing in the lashing rain, the mists swirling around her. Though he’d hadn’t heard her approach, she was halfway between the tidy cottage and the tumbling stones of the old castle. One hand was lifted to her heart, and her breath was coming fast as if she’d been running.
    Her hair was wet, hanging in deep-red ropes over her shoulders, framing a face that might have been carved out of ivory by a master. Her mouth was soft and full and seemed to tremble as it curved into a smile of welcome. Her eyes were star blue and swimming with emotions as powerful as the storm.
    “I knew you would come.” The cloak she wore flew back as she raced to him. “I waited for you,” she said with the musical lilt of Ireland before her mouth crushed his.

C HAPTER 2
    There was a moment of blinding, searing joy. Another of dark, primal lust.
    Her taste, sharp, potent, soaked into his system as the rain soaked his skin. He was helpless to do anything but absorb it. Her arms were chained around his neck, her slim, curvy body pressed intimately to his, the heat from it seeping through his sodden shirt and into his bones.
    And her mouth was as wild and edgy as the sky thundering above them.
    It was all terrifyingly familiar.
    He brought his hands to her shoulders, torn for a staggering instant as to whether to pull her closer or push her away. In the end he eased back, held her at arm’s length.
    She was beautiful. She was aroused. And she was, he assured himself, a stranger. He angled his head, determined to handle the situation.
    “Well, it’s certainly a friendly country.”
    He saw the flicker in her eyes, the dimming of disappointment,