"Could be. Why don't I answer some of your questions, so you can beat it home?"

Damn it, she wanted him gone. She knew what she'd seen in the scrying ball, and that with care, with skill, such things could sometimes be changed. But whatever was to be, she didn't want things moving so fast.

And the way he was touching her, just those long fingertips to her hair, had little flicks of fear lighting in her gut.

That made her angry.

"No hurry," he said easily, wondering whether, if he took a chance and kissed her again, he'd experience that same otherworldly sensation. "I don't mind a little rain."

"It's going to pour," she muttered to herself. She'd damn well see to it. "Some of your books might be helpful," she began. "Giving you history and recorded facts, a general outline of rituals." She poked a finger at the first one he'd given her. "Not this one. There are certain… trappings that are used in the Craft."

"Graveyard dirt?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."

"Come on, Morgana, it's a great visual." He shifted, slipping a hand over hers, wanting her to see as he saw. "Exterior scene, night. Our beautiful heroine wading through the fog, crossing over the shadows of headstones. An owl screams. In the distance echoes the long, ululant howl of a dog. Close-up of that pale, perfect face, framed by a dark hood. She stops by a fresh grave and, chanting, sifts a handful of newly turned earth into her magic pouch. Thunder claps. Fade out."

She tried, really tried, not to be offended. Imagine anyone thinking she skulked around graveyards. "Nash, I'm trying to remember that what you do is entertainment, and you're certainly entitled to a great deal of artistic license."

He had to kiss her fingers. Really had to. "So you don't spend much time in cemeteries."

She snagged her temper, and a bolt of desire. "I'll accept the fact that you don't believe what I am. But I will not, I absolutely will not, tolerate being laughed at."

"Don't be so intense." He brushed the hair off her shoulder and gave the back of her neck a quick massage. "I admit, I usually do a better job at this. Hell, I did twelve hours of interviews with this whacked-out Rumanian who swore he was a vampire. Didn't have a mirror in the house. He made me wear a cross the whole time. Not to mention the garlic," Nash remembered with a grimace. "Anyway, I didn't have a problem humoring him, and he was a treasure chest of information. But you…"

"But me," she prompted, doing her best to ignore the fact that he was trailing a finger up her arm with the same skill and sensuousness he had used to stroke Luna.

"I just can't buy it, Morgana. You're a strong, intelligent woman. You've got style, taste—not to mention the fact that you smell terrific. I just can't pretend to believe that you believe all this."

Her blood was starting to boil. She would not, simply could not, tolerate the fact that he could infuriate her and seduce her at the same time. "Is that what you do to get what you want? Pretend?"

"When some ninety-year-old woman tells me her lover was shot as a werewolf in 1922, I'm not going to call her a liar. I figure either she's a hell of a storyteller or she believes it. Either way it's fine with me."

"As long as you get the angle for your movie."

"That's my living. Illusion. And it doesn't hurt anyone."

"Oh, I'm sure it doesn't, not when you walk away, then have a few drinks with the boys and laugh about the lunatic you interviewed." Her eyes were flaming. "Try it with me, Nash, and you'll get warts on your tongue."

Because he could see that she was really angry, he swallowed his grin. "All I'm saying is, I know you've got a lot of data, a lot of facts and fantasy, which is exactly what I'm looking for. I figure building a reputation as a witch probably adds fifty percent to your sales annually. It's a great hook. You just don't have to play the game with me."

"You think I pretend to be a witch to increase sales." She was getting slowly to her feet, afraid that if she stayed too close she might do him bodily harm.

"I don't—Hey!" He jumped when Luna dug her claws into his thighs.

Morgana and her cat exchanged looks of approval. "You sit in my home and call me a charlatan, a liar and a thief."

"No." He unhooked himself from the cat and stood. "That's not what I meant at all. I just meant that you can be straight with me."

"Straight with you." She began to pace the room, trying and failing to regain control. On one hand he was seducing her without her willing it, and on the other he was sneering at her. He thought she was a fraud. Why, the insolent jackass was lucky she didn't have him braying and twitching twelve-inch ears. Smiling wickedly, she turned. "You want me to be straight with you?"

The smile relieved him, a little. He'd been afraid she'd start throwing things. "I just want you to know you can relax. You give me the facts, and I'll take care of the fiction."

"Relax," she said with a nod. "That's a good idea. We should both relax." Her eyes glowed as she stepped toward him. "Why don't we have a fire? Nothing like a cozy fire to help you relax."

"Good idea." And definitely a sexy one. "I'll light it."

"Oh, no." She laid a hand on his arm. "Allow me."

She whirled away, flung out both arms toward the hearth. She felt the cool, clear knowledge whip through her blood. It was an ancient skill, one of the first mastered, one of the last to be lost with age. Her eyes, then her mind, focused on the dry wood. In the next moment, flames erupted with a roar, logs snapped, smoke billowed.

Pleased, she banked it so that the hearth glowed with the cheerful blaze.

Lowering her arms, she turned back. It delighted her to see not only that Nash was white as a sheet, but also that his mouth had yet to close.

"Better?" she asked sweetly.

He sat on the cat. Luna howled her disapproval and stalked off, despite his muttered apology. "I think—"

"You look like you could use a drink." On a roll now, Morgana held out a hand. A decanter hopped off a table five feet away and landed on her palm. "Brandy?"

"No." He let out a deep breath. "Thanks."