Spellbound
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Synopsis
Conjured of equal parts mystery and romance, Adrienne Staff’s Spellbound captures the imagination and compels the heart to believe once more in a love for all time.
Edward Rockford is tired of the hollow demands of society. He’s constantly surrounded and yet feels alone—until he crosses paths with a beautiful artist. Even in the shadows, Edward senses that she understands his true nature. But when he steps into her loft, Edward is stunned to see a painting that exposes a secret he’s kept from the world.
Haunted by ghosts from the past, Jamie Payton devotes her life to art. But now Jamie’s paintings have taken on a life of their own—and she’s sure that her brooding admirer is somehow responsible. Edward’s demeanor is unpredictable, his sudden romantic gestures unnerving. But when all is revealed, Jamie discovers that their connection is not just undeniable . . . it’s destiny.
Includes a special message from the editor, as well as excerpts from these Loveswept titles: Dream Lover, Lightning That Lingers, and The Baron.
Release date: September 12, 2011
Publisher: Loveswept
Print pages: 240
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Spellbound
Adrienne Staff
ONE
Slowly the clouds moved across the bright face of the full moon. Mysterious shadows cloaked the building where Jamie Payton tried to paint. For an instant it was as though the stage was purposely being dimmed; the scene was being set. Jamie felt a chill walk across her skin. She had the strangest feeling that something was about to happen, something unexplainable, something unforeseen. Something …
The lights went out. One minute Jamie was staring at her half-finished painting, brush in hand, and the next … total darkness.
“Damn!” She felt her way over to the wall near the door and flicked the light switch once, twice. Nothing. What was going on? Moving cautiously, she walked around the wall to the windows, covered with heavy oilcloth to keep out the distractions of the city while she painted. She slid a fingernail under the rim of a thumbtack, the cloth sprang up, and light poured in.
The street lamps were on outside and there were lights in the row of storefronts across the way. Jamie frowned. She opened the window, leaned out, and saw that lights were shining from the windows in her own building as well. Damn! Wouldn’t you know? Just when she thought she was finally getting somewhere with her painting, something bad had to happen. It was probably the wiring in her loft or a blown fuse. But why now? Why her?
Tugging her fingers through her uncombed hair, she turned back to the darkness of her own room. For a moment she stood there immobilized by a childhood sense of dread, feeling the old ghosts closing in. But she shook them off and moved quickly through the loft, pulling open one drawer after another in search of candles. Her elbow hit the corner of a box, the vase on top teetered, and an entire still life crashed to the floor.
Jamie screamed. She didn’t mean to; it just happened before she could control herself. Biting her lip, she bent and began picking glass shards off the worn wood floor. She was just reaching for another when there was a knock at the door.
“Now what?” she groaned. She was tempted to ignore it, but whoever was out there was very persistent. Setting the broken glass down in a neat pile, she walked over, checked the chain lock, and opened the door a few inches.
“Yes?” she said, peering out into the corridor. The guy standing there looked familiar, a neighbor most likely.
“Hi. I’m Kent. From next door,” he added, confirming her guess. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I heard a crash, and a scream.…” He shrugged. “I just wanted to check that everything’s okay.”
Jamie gave him a thin smile. “I’m fine. Thanks. That was nice of you, but I’m okay.”
He stood there.
“Really,” she insisted. “My lights went out and I bumped into some things I’d left lying around. I’m a painter and—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “Abstracts. You told me a year ago when we first met. And I’m the actor from next door, the one who used to play his music too loud.”
“Oh yes, of course I remember,” she lied, feeling really embarrassed now. He was trying to be neighborly. “Well, perhaps sometime you could come over and we could talk about our work.”
He smiled. “You said that also. But you didn’t show up at my New Year’s Eve party. Or my St. Patrick’s Day bash … green beer and all. I was hurt.”
Jamie stiffened. “I must have been busy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled. “I just thought we could be friends.”
“Yes. That’s nice. And thanks again for being the good Samaritan.”
“No problem. Hey—just call if you need any help.”
“Yes, I will. Thanks. Good night.”
She shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling oddly shaken. The truth was, she could have used a little help right now. But it was just as true that she couldn’t ask. Ever. Before she could stop herself, she was always saying, “No, thank you, I’m fine; I don’t need anything.” It was just the way she was.
Pain squeezed her heart. She wanted to be different. She longed to be different, to be open, warm, and responsive, to be the kind of person who was surrounded by friends. It would be wonderful to be the center of smiles and laughter, the giver and recipient of hugs.
Jamie’s throat tightened around forbidden tears. She pushed away from the door, away from her thoughts. “Now where the hell did I put those candles?”
Finally she had two lit and placed strategically in the dimness. Tomorrow she’d complain to her landlord. She’d have it out with him once and for all. He could either fix things so that she could paint without interruption or he could find himself another tenant. She’d move. She’d find another loft in Georgetown, or somewhere else in D.C. The classifieds probably had dozens of listings.
Reaching for an old newspaper, she knocked a week’s worth of mail onto the floor. When everything finally fluttered to a stop, there on top was a bill from the electric company, FINAL NOTICE typed across the envelope in bold print.
The electric company! Her hand flew to her mouth. The telephone company! Her rent! She’d forgotten to pay all her bills. She’d been so determined to finish this latest painting that she’d forgotten everything else. And for what? She still couldn’t get it right. She couldn’t achieve the power she wanted, the dynamic tension of form and shadow. She couldn’t capture the light, that perfect but elusive light she saw in her imagination. But she was damned if she was going to give up. Hurrying to the easel, she picked up her brush, dipped it in paint.…
At that instant a gust of wind blew in through the open windows and snuffed out her candles.
It was too much; she couldn’t stand it anymore. Problems were piling on top of problems: the poor sales at her first one-woman show, then this painting, and now the lights—
She was going to cry. She knew it, hating herself for it, fighting against it. And even as the tears gathered she heard her father’s cold voice with its chill disapproval, its utter disdain: “Look at you. Out of control. Are you crying? Are those tears? What are you, a baby? A failure? A loser?”
His ghost chased her from the loft.
Jamie took the stairs two at a time, grabbing at the banister for balance. She ran out the front door and into the loud, impersonal noise of the street with its car radios, college students, and flood of tourists. Above her head, the sky was filled with strange, leaden clouds that seemed to catch the noise and bounce it back down like an echo chamber. But even this was better than that voice.
Jamie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked on, head down. It started to drizzle. Every store light, every car light, every traffic light flashing green/yellow/red was reflected on the wet canvas of the sidewalks. The lights streaked and spread. They flowed in elongated, mystical shapes. They arched into rainbows at the edges of curbs where oil and grease had been laid like wax crayon on gray paper. Colors and light, light and color— Why couldn’t she paint like this, with such random beauty, such freedom?
Drawing a shaky breath, Jamie tilted her face up to the rain. It made it easier to hide the tears.
She wandered along, turning right or left without thought. Night fell over the city and the stores closed. As the rain picked up, the streets emptied. But Jamie was reluctant to go home, home to the darkness, the silence, her own thoughts … and that awful voice.
Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she took a sharp left down a narrow, dark street she’d never seen before. Suddenly everything looked unfamiliar. Yet she almost felt, in her confusion and despair, as if her feet had led her surely to this place. But why?
One light shone up ahead, spilling a welcoming pool of yellow warmth out onto the sidewalk. The sign on the window was old and faded, the paint worn away: MYST R UM. The window was full of the strangest things: antique toys, rhinestone earrings, a feather boa and a silk top hat, cut-glass vases, a shawl with red silk thread and ten-inch fringes. They were odd, mismatched items but beautiful to an artist’s eye. Already Jamie was picturing how she could stand a vase on one end of the shawl, its fringe hanging down off the table’s edge as sunlight splintered through the glass. She could use layer upon layer of paint to create a jeweled, almost enameled effect.
Abandoning herself to her imagination, Jamie entered the store’s dim interior. Chaos reigned. Things were stacked everywhere in a topsy-turvy jumble. This store is as out of control as my loft, she thought, and almost smiled. She drew her fingers along the dusty countertops, traced the facets on a tiny vase, peered into the ancient, beveled-glass cases, gathered into her hands dry, threadbare fabrics that rustled under her touch.
“Welcome.”
Jamie spun in surprise. She searched the recesses of the store for the source of the man’s voice, but jumped nonetheless as he stepped out of the shadows. He was a tiny old man with a mane of white hair and a knowing smile. “Good evening. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
She nodded. “I bet you don’t have many customers on a night like tonight.”
“It only takes one. The right one,” the man replied, a glint in his eye.
Slowly the clouds moved across the bright face of the full moon. Mysterious shadows cloaked the building where Jamie Payton tried to paint. For an instant it was as though the stage was purposely being dimmed; the scene was being set. Jamie felt a chill walk across her skin. She had the strangest feeling that something was about to happen, something unexplainable, something unforeseen. Something …
The lights went out. One minute Jamie was staring at her half-finished painting, brush in hand, and the next … total darkness.
“Damn!” She felt her way over to the wall near the door and flicked the light switch once, twice. Nothing. What was going on? Moving cautiously, she walked around the wall to the windows, covered with heavy oilcloth to keep out the distractions of the city while she painted. She slid a fingernail under the rim of a thumbtack, the cloth sprang up, and light poured in.
The street lamps were on outside and there were lights in the row of storefronts across the way. Jamie frowned. She opened the window, leaned out, and saw that lights were shining from the windows in her own building as well. Damn! Wouldn’t you know? Just when she thought she was finally getting somewhere with her painting, something bad had to happen. It was probably the wiring in her loft or a blown fuse. But why now? Why her?
Tugging her fingers through her uncombed hair, she turned back to the darkness of her own room. For a moment she stood there immobilized by a childhood sense of dread, feeling the old ghosts closing in. But she shook them off and moved quickly through the loft, pulling open one drawer after another in search of candles. Her elbow hit the corner of a box, the vase on top teetered, and an entire still life crashed to the floor.
Jamie screamed. She didn’t mean to; it just happened before she could control herself. Biting her lip, she bent and began picking glass shards off the worn wood floor. She was just reaching for another when there was a knock at the door.
“Now what?” she groaned. She was tempted to ignore it, but whoever was out there was very persistent. Setting the broken glass down in a neat pile, she walked over, checked the chain lock, and opened the door a few inches.
“Yes?” she said, peering out into the corridor. The guy standing there looked familiar, a neighbor most likely.
“Hi. I’m Kent. From next door,” he added, confirming her guess. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I heard a crash, and a scream.…” He shrugged. “I just wanted to check that everything’s okay.”
Jamie gave him a thin smile. “I’m fine. Thanks. That was nice of you, but I’m okay.”
He stood there.
“Really,” she insisted. “My lights went out and I bumped into some things I’d left lying around. I’m a painter and—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “Abstracts. You told me a year ago when we first met. And I’m the actor from next door, the one who used to play his music too loud.”
“Oh yes, of course I remember,” she lied, feeling really embarrassed now. He was trying to be neighborly. “Well, perhaps sometime you could come over and we could talk about our work.”
He smiled. “You said that also. But you didn’t show up at my New Year’s Eve party. Or my St. Patrick’s Day bash … green beer and all. I was hurt.”
Jamie stiffened. “I must have been busy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled. “I just thought we could be friends.”
“Yes. That’s nice. And thanks again for being the good Samaritan.”
“No problem. Hey—just call if you need any help.”
“Yes, I will. Thanks. Good night.”
She shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling oddly shaken. The truth was, she could have used a little help right now. But it was just as true that she couldn’t ask. Ever. Before she could stop herself, she was always saying, “No, thank you, I’m fine; I don’t need anything.” It was just the way she was.
Pain squeezed her heart. She wanted to be different. She longed to be different, to be open, warm, and responsive, to be the kind of person who was surrounded by friends. It would be wonderful to be the center of smiles and laughter, the giver and recipient of hugs.
Jamie’s throat tightened around forbidden tears. She pushed away from the door, away from her thoughts. “Now where the hell did I put those candles?”
Finally she had two lit and placed strategically in the dimness. Tomorrow she’d complain to her landlord. She’d have it out with him once and for all. He could either fix things so that she could paint without interruption or he could find himself another tenant. She’d move. She’d find another loft in Georgetown, or somewhere else in D.C. The classifieds probably had dozens of listings.
Reaching for an old newspaper, she knocked a week’s worth of mail onto the floor. When everything finally fluttered to a stop, there on top was a bill from the electric company, FINAL NOTICE typed across the envelope in bold print.
The electric company! Her hand flew to her mouth. The telephone company! Her rent! She’d forgotten to pay all her bills. She’d been so determined to finish this latest painting that she’d forgotten everything else. And for what? She still couldn’t get it right. She couldn’t achieve the power she wanted, the dynamic tension of form and shadow. She couldn’t capture the light, that perfect but elusive light she saw in her imagination. But she was damned if she was going to give up. Hurrying to the easel, she picked up her brush, dipped it in paint.…
At that instant a gust of wind blew in through the open windows and snuffed out her candles.
It was too much; she couldn’t stand it anymore. Problems were piling on top of problems: the poor sales at her first one-woman show, then this painting, and now the lights—
She was going to cry. She knew it, hating herself for it, fighting against it. And even as the tears gathered she heard her father’s cold voice with its chill disapproval, its utter disdain: “Look at you. Out of control. Are you crying? Are those tears? What are you, a baby? A failure? A loser?”
His ghost chased her from the loft.
Jamie took the stairs two at a time, grabbing at the banister for balance. She ran out the front door and into the loud, impersonal noise of the street with its car radios, college students, and flood of tourists. Above her head, the sky was filled with strange, leaden clouds that seemed to catch the noise and bounce it back down like an echo chamber. But even this was better than that voice.
Jamie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked on, head down. It started to drizzle. Every store light, every car light, every traffic light flashing green/yellow/red was reflected on the wet canvas of the sidewalks. The lights streaked and spread. They flowed in elongated, mystical shapes. They arched into rainbows at the edges of curbs where oil and grease had been laid like wax crayon on gray paper. Colors and light, light and color— Why couldn’t she paint like this, with such random beauty, such freedom?
Drawing a shaky breath, Jamie tilted her face up to the rain. It made it easier to hide the tears.
She wandered along, turning right or left without thought. Night fell over the city and the stores closed. As the rain picked up, the streets emptied. But Jamie was reluctant to go home, home to the darkness, the silence, her own thoughts … and that awful voice.
Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she took a sharp left down a narrow, dark street she’d never seen before. Suddenly everything looked unfamiliar. Yet she almost felt, in her confusion and despair, as if her feet had led her surely to this place. But why?
One light shone up ahead, spilling a welcoming pool of yellow warmth out onto the sidewalk. The sign on the window was old and faded, the paint worn away: MYST R UM. The window was full of the strangest things: antique toys, rhinestone earrings, a feather boa and a silk top hat, cut-glass vases, a shawl with red silk thread and ten-inch fringes. They were odd, mismatched items but beautiful to an artist’s eye. Already Jamie was picturing how she could stand a vase on one end of the shawl, its fringe hanging down off the table’s edge as sunlight splintered through the glass. She could use layer upon layer of paint to create a jeweled, almost enameled effect.
Abandoning herself to her imagination, Jamie entered the store’s dim interior. Chaos reigned. Things were stacked everywhere in a topsy-turvy jumble. This store is as out of control as my loft, she thought, and almost smiled. She drew her fingers along the dusty countertops, traced the facets on a tiny vase, peered into the ancient, beveled-glass cases, gathered into her hands dry, threadbare fabrics that rustled under her touch.
“Welcome.”
Jamie spun in surprise. She searched the recesses of the store for the source of the man’s voice, but jumped nonetheless as he stepped out of the shadows. He was a tiny old man with a mane of white hair and a knowing smile. “Good evening. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
She nodded. “I bet you don’t have many customers on a night like tonight.”
“It only takes one. The right one,” the man replied, a glint in his eye.
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