‘Ah...’ He was holding her gaze and, for a heartbeat, Zanna had the impression he was about to tell her something of great significance. But then his gaze shifted and she could sense him changing his mind. He nodded, as though confirming his decision. ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly. ‘I would like to see the house.’
Should she show him? How dangerous would it be to be alone with this man? But what if he did hold the key to saving this place? How good would it be to have its safety assured by the time Maggie got home? She owed her beloved aunt so much and a protection order would be a gift beyond price.
For both of them.
Zanna took a deep, steadying breath. And then she mirrored his nod. ‘I’ll have to lock up,’ she told him. Moving to collect the key from behind the counter took her even closer to him and she felt that odd curl of sensation deep within again. Stronger this time. That heady mix of desire laced with...danger.
She was playing with fire.
But, oh...the heat was delicious.
‘I’m Zanna,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Zanna Zelenksy.’
‘Dominic Brabant.’ It was only good manners to extend his hand and his smile disguised the satisfaction of confirming that she was the person he’d been hoping to meet. ‘Nic.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Nic.’
* * *
The touch of her hand was as surprising as hearing her voice had been. That familiar frisson he noted would have been a warning in years gone by but Nic had learned to control it. To take the pleasure it could offer and escape before it became a prison.
Not that he’d expected to find it here. Any more than he’d expected this opportunity to appear. Fate was throwing more than one curveball in his direction at the moment. But how was he supposed to handle this one?
He watched as Zanna dipped her head, holding her hair out of the way, to blow out the numerous candles burning on the counter. With swift movements she divided and then braided the hair she held into a loose, thick rope that hung over her shoulder. Pulling a tasselled cord around her neck released the fastening of the purple robe. Skin-tight denim jeans appeared and then a bright orange cropped top that left a section of her belly exposed. There was a jewel dead centre. Copper coloured. It made him remember her extraordinary eyes. And as for her skin...
His gut tightened in a very pleasurable clench. The notion of her being a witch was too absurd. He was quite certain he would be unable to discover a single wart on that creamy skin.
Anywhere.
Mon Dieu... His body was telling him exactly how he would prefer to handle this and it didn’t dent his confidence. It was a given that he would win in the end because he had never entertained the acceptance of failure since he’d been old enough to direct his own life, and this new project was too significant to modify.
Could what was happening here work in his favour?
Be patient, he reminded himself. He needed to go with the flow and see what other surprises fate might have in store for him.
The ripple of anticipation suggested that the reward would be well worth waiting for.
STONE GARGOYLES SAT on pedestals, guarding the steps that led to the shop’s entrance. While Zanna fitted an old iron key into the lock and turned it, Nic took another stride or two onto the mossy pathway beneath massive trees.
Having already admitted his interest, he didn’t have to stifle the urge to look up through the branches to get another look at the house. Zanna’s distraction was fortunate because it gave him a few moments to deal with a fresh wave of the turbulent emotions that memories evoked.
It had to be his earliest-ever memory, running down a brick pathway just like this, summoned by the creak of the iron gate that announced his father’s return home. Being caught in those big, work-roughened hands and flung skywards before being caught again. Terrifying but thrilling because it was a given that nothing bad could happen when Papa was there.
He could hear the faint echo of a small child’s shriek of laughter that blended with the deep, joyous rumble of the adult.
Piercing happiness.
Nothing bad had happened while Papa had been there. Life had been so full of laughter. Of music. The sounds of happiness that had died when Papa had been snatched away from them.
The memory slipped away, screened by filters the years had provided. And he could help them on their way by focusing on the house and using his professional filter—an extensive knowledge of architecture and considerable experience in demolishing old buildings.
It really was astonishing, with the unusual angles to its bays and verandas that gave it the impression of a blunted pentagon. It was iced with ornate ironwork, intricately moulded bargeboards and modillions and, to top it all off, there was a turret, set like a church spire to one side of the main entrance, adding a third storey to the two large rooms with rounded bay windows.
A secret, circular room that begged to be explored.
Especially to a small boy who had gazed at it from over the fence.
The shaft of remembered longing was as shiny as that moment of happiness had been. The filters were like clouds, shifting just enough to allow a bright beam to shine through. Bright enough to burn.
The emotion behind this current project would be overwhelming if he let it surface. Not that his mother was here to see it happen but that only made it more important. This was going to be a memorial to the one woman he’d ever truly loved. To the man she’d loved with all her heart. To the family he’d had for such a heartbreakingly short breath of time.
He swallowed hard.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ Zanna had joined him on the path. ‘The most amazing house in the world.’
A leaf drifted down from one of the trees and landed on Nic’s shoulder. Zanna resisted the urge to reach up brush it off.
‘It’s certainly unusual. Over a hundred years old. Queen Anne style.’
Had she been right in guessing that he was a specialist in old houses? ‘How do you know that?’ she asked. ‘Are you an architect?’
‘Used to be. Plus, I’ve done a lot of study. The style was taken up in the 1880s and stayed popular for a long time. The Marseilles tiles on the roof make it a bit later because they weren’t introduced until about 1901.’
The brief eye contact as he glanced at her was enough to steal Zanna’s breath for a moment. The connection felt weird but gave her hope. He knew about old houses. Would he fall in love with her house and help her fight to save it?
‘I didn’t know about the Queen Anne style until recently,’ she confessed. ‘I had to do some research to apply for the historical protection order. It’s all about the fancy stuff, isn’t it? The turret and shingles and things.’
It didn’t matter if he didn’t admit that consideration for protection was the reason he was here. Zanna was asking the question partly because she wanted him to keep talking. She loved his voice. It reflected the dark, chocolate quality of his eyes. And that faint accent was undeniably sexy.
‘It was also known as free classical,’ he told her. ‘The turret is a bit of a signature. Like those dragon spikes on the roof ridges. It looks like it was designed by an architect with a strong love of fairy-tales.’
‘Or magic?’ Zanna suggested quietly.
He shook his head, dismissing the suggestion, but the huff of his breath was a softer sound than she might have expected. ‘Typical of New Zealand to adopt a style and make it popular only after it was considered