Waiting for the Moon

It was a lovely, magical setting, created by a woman who believed in fairy tales and happy-ever-after endings.

For years and years he'd stood on this porch, beneath the shadowy, wisteria-festooned overhang, and looked out over this yard. All he'd ever seen was a cold, square patch of grass bordered by towering trees. It had never occurred to him that it could be anything else.

When had he stopped seeing such beauty in the ordinary world around him? And why had he let the ability to create magic slip away from him without a fight? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. He'd never let the ability slip away; he'd never possessed it in the first place. Even as a child, he'd seen the world in cold, rational terms. It was something he'd learned early on. Life wasn't fair or just or kind. He wouldn't-couldn't-have conceived of creating a place like this.

The door whined behind him, then cracked shut. "Are you ready to play with me?"

The velvety bourbon of her voice washed over him, reminded him that for all his experience with women, he was out of his league with her. Her quiet naivete undid him, left him defenseless and vaguely out of control Are you ready to play with me?

He shivered at the subtle sexual innuendo, knowing that she had no idea what she'd asked. Or what his answer could be. He stepped

back from the candles and turned to her.

She stood at the top of the steps, tall and straight. She'd twined her hair into a thick braid that lay curled over one shoulder. A pale yellow wrap as sheer as a wedding veil hung in shadowy folds over her nightdress. Big, muddy men's work boots stuck out from be-

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neath the hem. Smiling, she reached down to the small leather case beside her and flicked the latch. The case fell open with a thump, revealing a row of mallets and multicolored balls.

She grabbed a handful of balls and two mallets and glided down the steps toward him.

He took a mallet and red ball and gave her a mallet and blue ball, then he tossed the remainders back onto the porch. Stepping back, he tried to keep some distance between them. "Now-"

She moved closer. "Now what?"

He stepped back. She stepped closer.

"Selena, I'd like to keep a little distance between us, if you don't mind."

She moved up next to him. "I do mind." She tilted her face up and gave him a radiant smile that shot straight to his heart.

Ian stiffened and forced a weak smile. He wished he'd never promised her a thing. "Fine. Let's get on with it." He gripped the mallet and bent over, showing her how to knock the ball through the first wicket.

Her gaze never left him as he slowly straightened. "Your turn," he said.

"Show me how to hold the mallet."

Reluctantly he went to her. She promptly turned her back on him and bent slightly forward.

He stared at her back. The pale skin at the base of her neck glowed in the meager light, reminded him suddenly that she was naked beneath the sheer wrap and gown. No corsets or chemises or drawers ...

"Ian?"

He banished the erotic images and moved closer to her. Cautiously he eased his arms around her body and gently took hold of her hands, guiding them to the correct hold on the mallet. She released a shivery sigh at his touch.

"Concentrate," he said sharply. "And hit the ball through the wicket."

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Suddenly she released the mallet and spun in his arms. Her smiling face filled his vision. Her puffy, kiss-able lips were a whisper away from his. He could feel the soft strains of her breathing against his chin.

"Why should I care whether the ball goes through the wacket?"

For a second, Ian couldn't breathe. She was so lovely, everything a woman could be. Earthy, sensual, innocent, seductive. How could he ever have thought her damaged? He tried to find a voice, and when he did it was throaty and harsh. "Those are the rules. You wanted to learn to play the game."

"Perhaps I would rather play something else with you, Ian."

The way she said his name sent shivers dancing along his spine. He gazed down at her, losing himself in the liquid chocolate of her eyes. Moonlight streamed through her gown and highlighted the shadowy body beneath. Without thinking, he touched the tip of her braid. The cinnamon-hued strands coiled around his finger, catching him in a soft, silken grip that he had no desire to break.