A Witch's Beauty (Daughters of Arianne 2)

But there were things he wanted to share with Mina as well. In fact, he could share that last one, if he could coax her past her fear of heights. He wanted to give her a home. Like a human male would. A place with a fence and an apple tree. Maybe a dog. Would Mina like a puppy? No, maybe a cat. A cat had enough balance of darkness and light. A puppy was way too far on the light energy side of the line, particularly the sunny golden retriever he'd initially pictured. She'd probably turn into a dragon and eat his fuzzy, little yellow body in one gulp.

His grimly amused thoughts were disrupted as he headed toward the street. He heard voices, piano music. Touching down in front of the saloon, he surveyed the area, all senses on alert, but detected no presence other than himself and Mina. With the exception of a few lizards, a desert turtle and, not too far away, a pair of coyotes who'd stopped to listen, ears pricked forward at the unusual noise of the piano.

When he peered over the saloon doors that were fairly new, replaced for the film crew's needs since the original ones had been long gone, he was reminded of the ship's hold, the display of skeletal horses running in circles as an alert system. He'd wondered then if they were more than that. What he was seeing now was the answer to his question.

In her salvaged books there'd been one or two Westerns, probably a way for a freighter crewman to pass the time. It was a surprise to find Mina'd liked them enough to create the world of his teenaged imaginings now.

Since she lacked actual skeletal remains this time, the images were transparent, ghostlike. Fitting for a ghost town. He wouldn't be surprised if, scattered amid the illusion, the actual ghosts were participating.

He marveled at her recall of details, but then, he expected that a witch who had to recall the exact words and measurements for spell work and potions wouldn't ever skim a text, even a piece of fiction. Especially if she used it to create worlds like this to exercise her power. Or keep her company.

The men sitting at the tables wore the myriad outfits of gunslingers, riverboat gamblers and cattle punchers. Many of them smoked. The clink of whiskey glasses and poker chips was an undercurrent to the conversations. A handful of saloon girls with swiveling hips sashayed around them, their laughter punctuating the environment as they tossed feather-plumed heads, the tight ringlets of their hair grazing mostly exposed bosoms.

As an angel, he was capable of splicing reality from illusion. But when reality and fantasy blended together so seamlessly, he suspected he might be excused for having missed her on his first pass through the room. He didn't make the mistake for more than a blink, his gaze snapping back to the woman leaning against the piano on the stage.

Dark blue velvet snugly fitted over her hips, then split high on the thigh to reveal stocking-clad legs, a riveting lace garter with a tiny bow. The skirt's long slit was edged with black feathers, which grazed the top of a pair of laced boots. There was a waist cincher, a modified black lace corset that hugged her waist and fitted just beneath her bosom. Because the off-the-shoulder style was liberally edged with feathers, he got only a tempting hint of the elevated cleavage.

She had her body angled so all he saw was her unscarred side. When she turned, he saw she'd combined reality and fantasy upon herself as well. She was unscarred, the illusion perfect except for a slight wavering from the energy that a non-angel wouldn't have detected. She looked almost how she would have if Neptune had never made his unfortunate decree. Red, wet lips, thick black lashes over eyes so blue they likely had inspired the color of predawn light.

David knew Jonah's Anna was probably one of the most physically and spiritually beautiful women he'd ever seen, golden innocence and love just shining from her. But what he was looking at was Woman in all her dark mystery, everything that drew a man and enslaved him to her, just by the fact she breathed and stood before him.

Air brushed him, causing him to glance down at himself. To his surprise, he discovered his appearance had changed, at least to the eye. He was wearing the classic garb of a gunslinger. Black trousers over heeled boots, gun at his hip and the holster tied to his thigh. Duster coat, charcoal gray vest over a cotton shirt. And a black cowboy hat with braided trim. Bemused, he felt for his wings, found that they were there, shimmering into brief awareness as he touched them, but otherwise invisible. It was a magic the likes of which he'd never seen. Illusion with the weight of reality.

The lady had invited him into her game. While he was uncertain where this was headed, he knew everything with Mina could be a test, not just a way to pass the time. He was more than willing to play, though he surmised that might be the wrong word for it.

As a boy, like so many others, he'd mastered the John Wayne saunter that suggested confidence. Not to be confused with a cocky swagger. He used that learned saunter now to shoulder into the doors, just as he would have in his imaginings with his friends, only then he would have prepared for a violent shoot-out. Of course, he'd no doubt this could become just as intensely heated.

As he stepped in, his gaze locked on hers. He removed his hat, a courtesy to a lady, and nodded.

Her lips parted, a breath slipping out that stole his own. Something flickered in her gaze, and then she strolled to the edge of the stage as he navigated the tables, feeling the astounding weight of the gun on his hip. Suspecting it would fire real bullets, he thought it best to keep it out of her reach.

When she stopped at the edge of the stage, he was there to reach out a hand. Gloves on those slim fingers fitted her wrist and forearm up to the elbow and just beyond like a second skin. Though he could tell no difference between them with the enchantment, he noted she offered the undamaged right hand. Gratified, he also noted she still wore the angel pendant he'd left her, and there was a bouquet of black feathers with a sparkling comb pulling back her hair on one side.

"I'm in need of some assistance," she said. Her voice was low, throaty, something he knew wasn't affected. Something had stirred her. He wasn't sure if her own magic had stimulated her, or his willingness to step into it without a word to break the spell, but whatever it was, unless a herd of Dark Ones invaded, he wasn't going to do anything to screw it up.

"Anything the lady desires."

Mina wet her lips. He had no idea that his sculpted jaw and steady brown eyes, so serious and focused, went perfectly with the character she'd imagined, almost as if David had inspired it. She'd seen those eyes flash dangerously, become as hard as flint or gentle as a father's touch, the way a father's eyes and touch were supposed to be. A gunslinger would protect, killing if necessary, to bring women and children out of harm's way. There was nothing irreconcilable about the warrior's face he showed his enemies or the tender countenance seen by those he protected. Implacability versus infinite compassion. An angel and a man.

He'd taken off his hat, but now she touched the brim with a light finger where it rested on his chest. She leaned over as she did, so that his eyes couldn't help focusing on the elevated positioning of her breasts in the neckline, one an illusory match for the other. It didn't matter what was charm or reality. She could easily imagine the sensation of his fingers trailing in the cleft between them. Or his mouth.

Taking the hat from his hands, she guided it back to his head, and he helped, laying his fingers over hers to put it squarely there again. "You said something about assistance." He cleared his throat, charmingly. "How can I help you, ma'am?"

One thumb caught in the gun belt, the other in the waist pocket of the vest, but his fingers were tensely curled, as if he were doing it to keep from reaching out and touching her. Or rather, that's what she wanted to think.

"Can you help me off the stage?"

He nodded, freed his hands and put them to her waist. As she rested her fingers on the broad shoulders beneath his duster, she tried not to think how easy it would be to dispel the spell and feel bare flesh. Real flesh.

Lifting her, he brought her down to the floor. Close. So her body slid down his, inch by inch, his strength on blatant display as he drew it out and her

fingers curved into his hard biceps, one leg itching to hook itself around the back of his thigh, feel the taut buttock slide along the inside of her thigh. Her breasts pushed against the vest, rising even higher, the bodice so low that it was possible to see the pink circle around one nipple. When she reached the ground, his hands were still on her hips, her body against his, so that she felt his reaction, hard and high against her corseted abdomen.

It took effort to recall her intention. She eased back, a little thrilled when his fingers didn't release her. Then, apparently remembering the role he was playing, his grip eased.

"It's hard to lace a corset by yourself. It's a little loose. Do you think you could tighten it for me?"

She turned so his breath was on her nape, the catch of it as the skirt, gathered in back, brushed his groin. "The more curves they can see, the better these boys tend to tip. Above and below." She drew out her words the way she'd heard him do it, that thing he called a Southern drawl, giving them a touch of honey as she imagined Salome would.

When his hands found the lacings, she shivered. Brushing the top of her buttocks with his knuckles, he began adjusting the ties. "I imagine that's true, ma'am, though I don't think you have anything to worry about on that score." He leaned in, his jaw touching her check, his mouth distractingly close. "Unless you got a man. I think he might have something to say about other men eyeing what's his."

He was so much better at that Southern drawl than she was. Her breath left her in a gasp, as much because of her reaction to the sexy cadence as the way he drew the laces tighter in one even jerk, making her feel the increase in constriction from above her pubic bone to the nipple area.

"How's that? Tight enough?"

Her response trickled down her thigh, dampening the top of her stocking. "Tighter," she said, in little more than a whisper.

He obliged, and when the jerk came this time, she let out a small moan, particularly when his hand came up under one now highly perched breast and grazed just the top with his finger. So close to the barely concealed nipple she arched, her buttocks pressing into his cock as he moved up to her throat, to the ribbon and cameo choker she wore, the tiny angel just below it. His fingers laid over it, collaring her as he held her back against him, rubbing his cock slow and sure against the seam of her buttocks through the dress. The piano shimmered, her control faltering, just like at the ship, as if David's ability to arouse her could disrupt the simplest magic.

"Are you wet for me, girl?" His voice, the husky, dangerous voice of a gunslinger, goaded her, daring her to continue to play.