Nora Roberts - The Pagan Stone

Gage righted it, then picked up the knife. “Yours?”

“Yeah, too bad I didn’t get to use it.” She stepped into the kitchen with him, let out a slow breath. “The back door’s closed and locked, and so’s the window. It did that. That was real. It’s best to know what’s real and what isn’t.” After rinsing the knife and sliding it back into the block, she picked up the phone to call Layla.

Assuming she’d want it the way it was, Gage unlocked and opened both door and window.

“I’m going to cook,” Cybil announced when she hung up the phone.

“Fine.”

“It’ll keep me calm and centered. I’ll need a few things, so you can drive me to the market.”

“I can?”

“Yes, you can. I’ll get my purse. And since I now have bellinis on the brain, we’ll stop by the liquor store and pick up some champagne.”

“You want champagne,” he said after a beat.

“Who doesn’t?”

“Anything else on our list of errands?”

She only smiled. “You can bet I’m getting a pair of rubber gloves. I’ll explain on the way,” she said.

SHE BROWSED, STUDIED, EXAMINED THE OFFERINGS in produce. She selected tomatoes with the care and deliberation he imagined a woman might use when selecting an important piece of jewelry. In the brightly lit market with its mind-melting Muzak and red dot specials, she looked like some fairy queen. Titania, maybe, he decided. Titania had been no pushover either.

He’d expected to be irritated, or at least impatient with the household task of food shopping, but she was fascinating to watch. She had a fluid way of moving, and a look in her eyes that said she noticed everything. He wondered how many people could be terrorized by a demon, then coolly stroll behind a grocery store shopping cart.

He had to admire that.

She spent a full fifteen minutes over poultry, examining, rejecting chickens until she found one that somehow met her standards.

“We’re having chicken? All this for chicken?”

“Not just chicken.” She tossed back her hair, gave him that sidelong smile of hers. “It’s a roasted chicken made with wine, sage, garlic, balsamic-and so on. You’ll weep with joy at every bite.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Your tastebuds will. Your travels have probably taken you to New York a time or two over the years.”

“Sure.”

“Ever dined at Piquant?”

“Fancy French place, Upper West.”

“Yes, and a New York institution. The chef there was my first serious lover. He was older, French, absolutely perfect for the first serious lover of a woman of twenty.” That smile turned knowing, and just a little sultry. “He taught me quite a bit-about cooking.”

“How much older?”

“Considerably. He had a daughter my age. Naturally, she despised me.” She poked at a baguette. “No, I’m not settling for the bread here, not this late in the day. We’ll stop by the bakery in town. If nothing there works, I’ll just bake some.”

“You’ll just bake some bread.”

“If necessary. If I’m in the mood to, it can be therapeutic and satisfying.”

“Like sex.”

Her smile was quick and easy. “Exactly.” She rolled the cart into line. Leaned on the handle. “So, who was your first serious lover?”

She didn’t notice, or didn’t appear to care, that the woman ahead of them in line looked back over her shoulder with wide eyes. “I haven’t had one yet.”

“Well, that’s a shame. You’ve missed all the wild passion, the bitter arguments, the mad yearnings. Sex is fun without it, but all the rest adds intensity.” Cybil smiled at the woman ahead of them. “Don’t you agree?”

The woman flushed, moved her shoulders. “Ah, yeah, I guess. Sure.” And developed a sudden-and to Gage’s eyes, bogus-interest in the tabloids on the rack before the belt.

“Still, women are more prone to look for all that emotion. It’s genetic-hormonal,” Cybil continued conversationally. “We’re more sexually satisfied, as a gender, when we let our emotions engage, and believe-even if the belief is false-our lover’s emotions are as well.”

When the belt cleared enough, she began to load her purchases on. “I cook,” she told Gage, “you pay.”

“That wasn’t mentioned.”

She gave the bird a pat as she set it on the belt. “If you don’t like the chicken, I’ll give you a refund.”

He watched her load. Long fingers, palely painted nails, a couple of sparkling rings. “I could lie.”

“You won’t. You like to win, but like women and emotion and sex, the win isn’t as satisfying for you unless you play it straight.”

He watched the items ring up, and total. “It better be damn good chicken,” he said as he pulled out his wallet.

SHE’D BEEN RIGHT ABOUT THE CHICKEN; HE’D never had better. And he thought she’d been right to decree no discussion of her experience, or any demon-related topic during the group meal.

It was fascinating how much other the six of them had to talk about, even though they’d been in one another’s pockets for months. Wedding plans, new business plans, books, movies, celebrity scandals, and small-town gossip bounced around the table like tennis balls. At any other time, in any other place, the gathering would have been exactly as it appeared-a group of friends and lovers enjoying each other and a perfectly prepared meal.

And how did he fit into the mix? His relationship with Cal and Fox had changed and evolved over the years as they’d gone from boys to men, certainly when he’d yanked out his roots in the Hollow to move on. But at its base it was what it had always been-the friendship of a lifetime. They simply were.

He liked the women they’d chosen, for their own sakes, and for the way they’d meshed with his friends into couples. It took unique women to face what they were all facing and stick it out. It told him that if any of them survived, the four of them would buck the odds and make the strange entity of marriage work.

In fact, he believed they’d thrive.

And if they survived, he’d move on again. He was the one who left-and who came back. That’s how he made his life work, in any case. There was always the next game, and another chance to play. That’s where he fit in, he supposed. The wild card that turned up after the cut and shuffle.

That left Cybil, with her encyclopedic brain, her genius in the kitchen, and her nerves of steel. Only once since they’d come together had he seen her break down. Twisse had triggered the deepest personal fear in all of them, Gage remembered, and for Cybil that was blindness. She’d wept in his arms when that was over. But she hadn’t run.

No, she hadn’t run. She’d stick it out, all of them would. Then if they lived through it, she’d move on. There wasn’t a single cell of small-town girl in that interesting body of hers. Adaptable she was, he thought. She’d settled smoothly enough into the Hollow, the little house, but it was… like Frannie Hawkins’s holding vase, he realized. This was just a temporary stop before she moved on to something more suited to her style.

But where, and to what would she move? He wondered that, wondered about her more than was wise.

She caught his glance, arched a brow. “Looking for a refund?”

“No.”

“Well then. I’m going for a walk.”

“Oh, but, Cyb-” Quinn began.

“Gage can come with me, while the four of you deal with the dishes.”

“How come he gets out of kitchen duty?” Fox wanted to know.

“He shopped, he paid. I want a little air before we bring the Big Evil Bastard to the table. How about it, big guy? Be my escort?”

“Take your phone.” Quinn caught Cybil’s hand. “Just in case.”