Free Captivated by Nora Roberts Page B

was a free agent, a man-about-town, unattached, unencumbered, and pleased as punch. Whatever the hell that meant.
    So why was he rattling around this big house like the last living cell in a dying body?
    And, much more important, why had he started to pick up the phone a dozen times to call Morgana?
    It wasn’t their night to work. She’d been very firm about giving him only two evenings a week. And he had to admit, once they’d gotten past those initial rough spots, they’d cruised along together smoothly enough. As long as he watched the sarcasm.
    She had a nice sense of humor, and a nice sense of drama—which was great, since he wanted both for the story. It wasn’t exactly a sacrifice to spend a few hours a week in her company. True, she was adamant about insisting she was a witch, but that only made the whole business more interesting. He was almost disappointed that she hadn’t set up any more special effects.
    He’d exercised admirable control in keeping his hands off her. Mostly. Nash didn’t figure touching her fingers or playing with her hair really counted. Not when he’d resisted that soft, sulky mouth, that long white throat, those high, lovely breasts. . . .
    Nash cut himself off, wishing he had something more satisfying to kick than the side of the sofa.
    It was perfectly normal to want a woman. Hell, it was even enjoyable to imagine what it would be like to tangle up the sheets with her. But the way his mind kept veering toward Morgana at all hours of the day and night, making his work suffer in the process, was close to becoming an obsession.
    It was time to get it under control.
    Not that he’d lost control, he reminded himself. He’d been a saint. Even when she’d answered the door wearing those faded, raggedy cutoffs—a personal weakness of his—he’d slapped back his baser instincts. It was a bit lowering to admit that his reasoning had had less to do with altruism than with self-preservation. A personal entanglement with her would mess up the professional one. In any case, a woman who could knock him sideways with a single kiss was best treated with caution.
    He had a feeling that that kind of punch would be a lot more lethal than DeeDee’s deadly aim.
    But he wanted to call her, to hear her voice, to ask if he could see her for just an hour or two.
    Damn it, he was
not
lonely. Or at least he hadn’t been until he’d shut off his machine and his tired brain to go for a walk on the beach. All those people he’d seen—the families, the couples, those tight littlegroups of belonging. And he’d been alone, watching the sun slide down into the water, longing for something he was sure he didn’t really want. Something he certainly wouldn’t know what to do with if he had it.
    Some people weren’t made to have families. That much Nash knew from firsthand experience. He’d decided long ago to avoid the mistake, and save some nameless, faceless child from being saddled with a lousy father.
    But standing alone and watching those families had made him restless, had made the house he’d come home to seem too big and much too empty. It made him wish he’d had Morgana with him, so that they could have strolled along, hand in hand, by the water. Or sat on an old, bleached log, his arm tucked around her shoulders, as they watched the first stars come out.
    On an oath, he yanked up the phone and punched out her number. His lips curved when he heard her voice, but the smile faded the moment he realized it was a recording, informing him that she was unavailable.
    He thought about leaving a message, but hung up instead. What was he supposed to say? he asked himself. I just wanted to talk to you. I need to see you. I can’t get you out of my mind.
    Shaking his head, he paced the room again. Grim, beautiful masks from Oceania stared down at him from their place on the wall. In low cases, keen-edged knives with ornate handles glinted in the lamplight. To relieve some tension, Nash scooped up a