Chapter Four

Carmen had pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt by the time the policeman arrived. She waited, tapping her foot, as the young officer exited his patrol car and approached her front steps.

“Good evening, ma’am.” Officer Paul Treble tipped his hat gravely. “What seems to be the trouble?” He stood at polite attention on Carmen’s porch.

Carmen groaned inwardly. She’d known Paul ever since she’d moved to Charade. As a pimple-faced teen, he’d helped out at Bushel and a Peck during high school, bagging bunches of kale and rhubarb for customers, before going to college and to the police academy.

“Come on in, Paul,” she answered. “I caught a trespasser in my bedroom and I’ve got him trapped in my closet.”

Paul placed his hand on the grip of his pistol. “Is he armed, Ma’am?”

“Sheesh, Paul, just call me Carmen, okay?” Carmen insisted. “And, uh, he’s not armed. He’s not even dressed,” she added, blushing.

Paul gave Carmen a sideways glance. She colored slightly and led him to her bedroom. The tall oak set of drawers stood in front of her closet door, massive and unmoving. Paul put his shoulder to the dresser and pushed it out of the way. He hopped back in front of the door and slid his gun from the holster. Pointing it up to the ceiling, he shouted in a commanding voice, “I’m going to open the door now. Put your hands on your head. Do not move. Do not take a step. Do you understand me?”

Carmen took a step back. Brock might be hot, but he was also a trespasser. And the whole cat-thing was just too weird to even consider. It was just creepy, no matter how you cut it. And who knew what a creepy trespasser might do…?

“Yowwwwrrrr?” a plaintive meow questioned from the closet.

“You locked him in there with your cat?” Paul muttered in surprise.

“I don’t have a damn cat!” Carmen retorted. “There’s been a stray around the place, though. It must have gotten in my closet.”

Paul placed one hand on the closet doorknob.

Carmen had an increasingly bad feeling about the whole situation.

Paul nodded to her and threw open the closet door. He lowered his pistol to chest level, but no one was inside the tiny space. However, a huge, fluffy, grey tomcat emerged, purring heartily. It walked—strutted—into the centre of the room. The cat blinked its bright blue eyes at Carmen. To Carmen, its noisy purrs sounded exactly like laughter.

Damn that Brock.

“It seems that no one is here, Miss Graham. Do you think the intruder could have left the closet and replaced the dresser in front of the door?”

Carmen scowled at the heavy grey cat that scrubbed his face against her shin. “No, Paul, I stayed in my room and watched the door until I heard your car drive up. I’d have heard the dresser move around if he’d gotten out.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “May I ask what time you came home tonight, Miss Graham?”

“Please, Paul, call me Carmen!” she said in exasperation. She glared at the stocky cat by her feet. “I don’t know, I got home about one, I think. Maybe it was closer to two, now that I think about it.”

Paul nodded. “Out with the girls at the Mine Shaft?” he asked. “Shooting some darts and drinking some beer?”

Carmen felt blood rush to her face. The cat leaned against her leg like a sympathetic conspirator. “Yes, fine, I had some beer to drink. And we took an Aldridge cab home, in case you were wondering. And no, I wasn’t just imagining an intruder in my house because I had maybe a tiny little buzz from the beer. I saw him, Paul! He was in my bed, touching me!”

Now it was Paul’s turn to blush. He turned a fantastic shade of crimson and stared at a spot on the floor. He tipped his hat and turned, not meeting Carmen’s eyes. “With your permission, I’d like to check around your property, Miss Graham, to be sure that your intruder isn’t, ah, lurking around. You might want to bring your dog in. I’m sure he’d make you feel safer.”

“Yes, yes,” Carmen agreed. She gave the cat a hate-filled glare and let Dax in. He gave the cat a thorough sniff then settled to sleep on the rug in Carmen’s bedroom.

Carmen brewed a pot of herbal tea as Paul investigated. He returned to inform her that he’d seen no signs of forced entry or damage to property. “You might want to hang on to that cat, you know,” he added as Carmen walked him to the front door. “Looks like he’d be a great mouser, and you sure could use one around here.”

Carmen, fuming, sipped her tea and had a stare-off with the cat until the police car pulled out of her driveway.

As soon as the sounds of Paul’s patrol car were gone, Brock appeared in place of the cat in all his bare-naked glory. He was laughing, damn him.

“Can I have some tea, too?” he asked. “That smells great. And do you have a robe for me? It’s just a bit chilly.”

Carmen rolled her eyes and fetched her robe from her bedroom. Dax groaned in his sleep and rolled over. “Some watchdog you are,” Carmen muttered.

Brock tied the pastel robe around his waist and grinned. His corded forearms stuck out from the cuffs and his bronzed thighs and bulging calves were exposed below the hem. The robe was nothing more than a fuzzy mini dress on him, but at least it covered that deliciously muscled chest, sculpted ass, and heavy cock of his.

He ran his hands through his wildly luxuriant ashen hair. “What about an early breakfast? I’m famished. Maybe some of those fantastic eggs of yours, Carmen?”

Exasperated, Carmen poured a cup of mint tea and handed it to him. “Can I have a little more information, please? Like, am I delusional? Or are you the crazy one? Or are we both nuts?”

Brock opened the refrigerator door and rummaged through the shelves. Try as she might, Carmen couldn’t keep her eyes off his taut thighs, bare and muscular, and the scanty hem of her bathrobe. “Got any cheese in here?” he asked as he bent and searched. The edge of the robe slipped up higher, over the rounded curve of his ass. Just beneath, she saw his ball sack swing. Carmen licked her lips, wondering just how soft it was, and just how delicious it would feel between her lips. Her body, recently denied its climax, responded immediately. She imagined pulling that velvety skin between his legs into her mouth and sucking ever-so-gently. His erection would grow harder and harder, she knew, but she’d wait to suck on that until they were both good and ready. Carmen loved nothing more than the pure tactile pleasure of a steel-hard male organ in her mouth, and it had been far, far too long since she’d indulged.

“Aha!” he crowed. “Organic goats’ cheese!” He straightened, beaming with delight, and looked like a chenille-clad combination of Hugh Grant and Johnny Depp. Somehow, the mash-up worked gloriously well. Carmen moved her eyes down the front of the fuzzy peach robe, gaping open at his broad chest, to the loosely tied belt, then to the micro-mini hemline. Just under the edge of the hem, she saw the soft pink tip of his penis sway tantalizingly. She took a deep breath to clear her thoughts.

“Yes, that’s great stuff, made locally.” She stood. “I’ll get some crackers. We might as well have a snack, right?” The bizarreness of the situation was overwhelming. At least cheese and crackers would add a touch of reality to this night. Carmen arranged some crackers on a plate along with the cheese and a knife. She placed the plate along with a napkin for each of them on the kitchen table and sat down with her tea. “Won’t you join me, Brock?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he answered. Rubbing his broad hands together with the delight of a kid at Christmastime, he sat in front of her at the table and began to dig in. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the robe split open when he spread his knees to sit—it exposed every sumptuous bit of his package. Carmen knew there was no way she could sit with him and ignore the sight of his thick shaft folded cosily against his balls.

“Ahem.” Carmen cleared her throat. “That robe’s not really working out for you or, ah, me. Let me see if I’ve got some sweatpants you can wear.”

“Oh, sorry,” Brock replied. “How’s this?”

Carmen gaped. He was now fully dressed in knee length cargo shorts, hiking sandals, and a snug black V-neck T-shirt. “Better?” Brock asked. He helped himself to a hunk of cheese on top of a cracker.

“Oh my God!” Carmen sputtered. “Is this like the cat thing?”

Brock nodded, his mouth full of goats’ cheese and buttery cracker. He took a sip of tea and pointed his finger at Carmen. “Bingo! It’s exactly like that. A glamour, Carmen. I’m still wearing your robe, which is very comfy by the way, but your eyes are telling you that I’m wearing these clothes instead.”

Carmen scrunched her eyebrows in confusion. She brought one hand to the hem of his shorts, but her fingers passed straight through the fabric. Instead, she found herself stroking his thigh—tautly muscled and dusted with soft hair. Reflexively, Carmen gave his leg an appreciative squeeze before blushing and pulling her hand away. “So, you’re still actually wearing my robe?”

“Yup,” Brock concurred matter-of-factly. “What you see is just a glamour.”

“Well, it’s a pretty cool trick,” Carmen said. “I wish I could do it. Does the glamour hold for everybody else? Like, if somebody else walked into this room, would they see you in these clothes or in my old bathrobe?”

“Good question,” Brock answered. He took a moment to chew another bite of cracker and chase it with some mint tea. “It would depend on whether that person has any magic. More specifically, it would depend on how much magic that person has. For example, some humans have a little trace of magic in them naturally. Say their great-great-grandma got it on with an elf or something. These things happen, you know.” Carmen chuckled. “They might see something funny or shimmery about the clothes I’m wearing, but they’d still see them. And some magic beings experience the world differently than others. Trolls, for instance, are all about brawn and not so much about brains. Their magic has less finesse than elves, for instance. Trolls probably would see both the robe and the clothes, but they wouldn’t care much. They’d be more interested in your chickens out back, frankly.”

“Trolls,” Carmen replied drily. “You’re telling me there are trolls out there?”

“Not so many as before,” Brock conceded, “but sure, there are trolls. Even trolls, though, have a built-in glamour about them as sort of a self-protection. To your eyes, they’d probably appear as bears. Which works out fine, since both trolls and bears are best avoided by humans. Plus, both tend to have horrible breath. And don’t even get me started on gnome halitosis.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Trolls, elves, tree spirits, gnomes, you name it. Prescott Woods is home to all sorts of magical creatures. Some were born that way, while others transformed for one reason or another, but all share that same ingredient—magic.”

“Right,” Carmen said. “Including you, right, Brock?” Brock again made a ‘Bingo!’ gesture and scarfed down another cracker. “And you’re, what, an elf? A gnome?” Carmen asked.

Brock took a swig of tea before answering. “I am one of the Fair Folk,” he informed her.

“You’re, like, a fairy?” Carmen suppressed a giggle. The tall, golden-brown, luxuriantly muscled man before her was about as far from her idea of a fairy as, well, a big grey tomcat.

“I’m one of the Fair Folk,” he corrected her, “and I live in Prescott Woods, which is in imminent danger, as I’m sure you know.”

Carmen nodded. “I know. I’m really bummed about it, but I’m not sure what I can do to stop the development. How did you hear about it? Little gnome spies, perhaps?”

Brock chuckled. “No need for little gnome spies. My glamour is very helpful for eavesdropping. I’m sure you can imagine.”

Carmen humphed and helped herself to a cracker with cheese.

Brock continued, “Old Man Prescott, after all these years, came into the woods with some business types. They talked about chopping down the trees, laying water pipes and electrical wires, and building luxury homes for rich folks.”

“Yes, I’d heard pretty much the same thing. The thought of Prescott Woods being demolished is upsetting, but the laid-back nature of Charade being lost is just unthinkable. But it’s Prescott’s land, right? What can we do to stop him?”

After guzzling the remainder of his herbal tea, Brock fixed her with his arresting sapphire blue eyes. “Calvin Prescott, like his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather, and great-great-great-grandfather, does not own the woods. He, like his forebears, is simply a caretaker. The Fair Folk—specifically, my family—own both the woods and the Prescott house. About two hundred years ago, my father had Prescott Manor built. He allowed the Prescott family to live there with the understanding that they would maintain the secrecy and safety of Prescott Woods. Old Man Prescott, apparently, has decided to renege on his family’s vow. We’re not going to stand for that.”

Carmen tried to concentrate on his words, but his body was more than a little distracting. She watched his face, transfixed. He ground his jaw in anger and his bronzed cheekbones jutted out like blades. Brock’s wild grey hair stood up on end, but, instead of making him look older, it gave glorious contrast to his smooth, warm brown skin. Carmen blushed, thinking that, although he appeared to be fully dressed in shorts and T-shirt, Brock was fully exposed in front of her.

Carmen looked up from his crotch and caught him staring at her, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Come here, Carmen,” he said as he stood. “They’re not going to chop down the woods in the next hour. I want to show you something.” He took her hand and led her back to her bedroom.