Witch Wanted

by Mina Carter

  Freaking hell, he’d never forgive himself if he’d hurt a child.

  He rounded the end of the truck, catching two people talking about bears, but there was only a young woman on the ground. He about froze in his tracks as he caught sight of her.

  Long purple hair, pale skin and dark makeup cozied it up with black-on-black clothing, heavy boots and enough silver jewelry to give any vampire the willies, she was the archetype of a witch. If you were an impressionable teen, that was.

  And if that wasn’t enough... Her comment about bears and honey got his back right up. The stupid things people believed. Bears did not eat honey, no matter what that little yellow jerk would have everybody believe. They ate the lava in the hives, not the honey itself. The lava was the biggest protein hit out there. Essential nutrients for a bear on the go.

  “Are you okay?”

  Remembering his manners, and his position as sheriff of the town, he crouched down next to her, running a professional eye over her curvaceous figure. The sight made all his male instincts sit up and take notice. Ruthlessly, he quashed them down again.

  She wasn’t his type. No way, no how.

  “Errr... I think so,” she said, her voice far breathier than it had been a moment before. His jaw tightened. Not local and with a strange accent. Probably from one of the cities nearby. And yes, no doubt the sort to sue him.

  “No, don’t try and move yet,” he ordered as she went to sit up, using a big hand to keep her in place. If this was a scam, she could sue him for letting her move too quickly and causing herself more damage.

  Not on his watch.

  She lay back down, watching him with big dark eyes as he checked her over. He hadn’t expected her to be so compliant, and his suspicion levels went through the roof.

  She smiled, the slight curve of her lips making his bear growl. And not in a bad way. In a “want to eat her all up in a good way” type of growl. He shoved the creature into the back of his mind as he continued feeling for breaks or contusions.

  “Hey, handsome... Do you normally get so touchy-feely before the first date?” she asked, trying to bat his hands away. “I mean, you’re cute and all, but I barely know you.”

  “Did you hit your head?” he demanded, gentling his touch when she winced. She might be a con artist, but that didn’t mean he needed to cause her more pain. No one deserved that, no matter what they’d done.

  “No, I don’t think so. Just hit my shoulder, and then the ground,” she said, twisting around to try and look at something. His gaze followed hers to the ruins of a suitcase. It was busted open under the wheels of his truck, what looked like lingerie scattered everywhere. He averted his eyes. He didn’t need to ogle the lady’s underwear, even if every male instinct he had instantly pictured her in the skimpy stuff.

  “Oh shit...” Color hit her pale cheeks and she tried to get up.

  “Ohh no... No, you don’t.”

  He moved, trying to stop her, and somehow ended up with an armful of curvy woman. Her movement knocked him off balance and they crashed to the ground again. But, feeling them falling, he twisted and got himself underneath her to cushion her fall.

  “Hey,” she said, her words a little slurred as she smiled. Had she been drinking as well? That could account for the accident. “You really are handsome, you know?”

  A vicious snarling warned him a second before something small and furry hit him. Small teeth clamped around the cuff of his shirt as it was wrenched from side to side.

  “You hurt my witch and I just got her! Get off her! Yesyesyes! I’ll kill you! Yesyesyes!”

  Brock turned his head in surprise and lifted his arm. The small dog—at least he thought it was a dog—hung off his shirt, snarling viciously.

  “Fuzz,” the woman across his lap reached for the little creature. “It’s okay. Promise. I’m okay.”

  Oh, now Brock got it. This was a double act.

  “Yeah,” he rumbled, wrapping his arm around her waist and hauling them both with him as he stood. “I’ll just bet you are. I think a little time in a cell will do you both the world of good.”

  5

  “You can’t do this!” Livvy exclaimed, fighting against the strong hold of the guy frog marching her inside what appeared to be the town’s police department. Just her luck to have gotten hit by the town sheriff and—in a twist of fate that was no surprise to her—he seemed to think she was a con artist.

  Well, technically he was right. She’d been conning people with her cards and fake fortunes for years. But nobody had ever proven anything. Fortune-telling was a subjective art, the spread different every time. And each fortune-teller interpreted the cards in their own way. Who said hers wasn’t valid? Sure... Sometimes it appeared she got it right. That had to be a fluke. Right? Yeah... Total fluke.

  But, this guy saw straight through her, and she hadn’t even done anything wrong.

  “I have rights, you know!” She struggled again, but she might as well have been trying to fight a damn mountain. Easily he dragged her bodily through the main area and threw her into a cell. She rounded on him, but before she could get back through the door, he chucked her ruined suitcase and Fuzzy in after her.

  “Hey, you wanker! That’s animal abuse!” she yelled when the dog yelped in pain. It was only a tiny thing, and his little legs were delicate. “I’ll have animal rights down on you. You watch me!” she threatened, as mad as a wet hen.

  He laughed, handsome face split into a broad grin.

  “Yeah, right, Missy. I’ll call them, shall I? I’m sure they’re gonna listen to you.”

  “Fucking arsehole,” she muttered under her breath as he turned away to head toward a big desk near the window.

  He was well built, she’d give him that, with the kind of body that said he spent a lot of time outdoors doing physical activities. Hopefully indoors as well, doing physical activities in the bedroom... She ignored the little voice in the back of her head. It sounded way too much like her nanna for comfort. And while she had been the best grandmother ever growing up, Livvy had been under no illusions. Nanna had been a complete and utter tart.

  Regardless of the fact that she was ignoring the little voice, her feminine instincts ensured she watched the sheriff out of the corner of her eye as he sat at the desk. He wasn’t like the police back home, all uniforms and traditional hats. (She’d been told that in Britain a policeman had to give over his hat for pregnant ladies who needed to pee. Having never been up the duff, she wasn’t sure on the accuracy of that statement.)

  Instead, worn denim jeans clung to his thighs and well-shaped arse. Boots peeked out from beneath the hem, and a clean shirt was tucked into them, belt around his narrow waist. The gun and the star next to it kind of gave the game away. She’d seen enough TV to recognize a lawman when she saw him.

  Her gaze traveled upward, over the broad chest and broader shoulders. Crap, the guy could double as a barn if he wanted to. Blond hair curled at the nape of his neck, inviting her to run her fingers through the curls to see if they were as soft as they looked. She bit back a whimper. Men with long hair had always been her weakness. Even if his wasn’t long... It was longish. Long enough.

  She finally looked at his face and cursed. He watched her, amusement in his blue eyes.

  “Like what you see?”

  “Just memorizing what a prick looks like.” She snorted and turned away.

  Fuzzy sat next to her suitcase, shivering with his tail tucked under him. He looked up at her with big, sad eyes.

  “Hey... It’s okay.” She was by his side in an instant, scooping him up into her arms. Poor thing shook so hard she was surprised he didn’t rattle the teeth out of his head.

  Quickly, she checked over his legs to make sure he hadn’t been hurt when McSheriff-Arsehole over there had dropped him on the floor. To her relief she couldn’t find any breaks or swellings. She cast a glare over her shoulder at the sheriff behind his desk.

  Wanker had gotten lucky.

  “I’
m okay. Yesyesyes,” the little dog mumbled, burrowing further into Livvy’s arms to seek comfort. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Why are we in here?”

  She sighed. “Because the bad man thinks that we did something naughty. And he’s a prick. Unfortunately, he has a badge and a gun, so I can’t argue with him.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you so far,” the deep voice muttered from behind them. He seemed to be dialing a number on an archaic rotary phone. This whole place was like something out of the 1950s.

  She flipped him the bird over her shoulder and smiled sweetly at Fuzzy. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be out of here soon enough.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  She ignored Sheriff Pain-in-the-Ass in favor of setting Fuzzy down on the thin bunk she assumed served as a bed to one side of the cell. Looking over the remains of her suitcase, she bit back a grimace. Utterly totaled. The body was broken, zip busted, and one wheel dangled forlornly. Great. Not even goose tape (a magical variety of its better-known cousin) could bring this baby back.

  The sight of Fuzzy jiggling from side to side on the bed made her glance up.

  “What’s the matter with you?” She frowned, hoping he wasn’t about to have some kind of canine seizure. She’d never had a dog before, or a familiar, so she didn’t know what to expect. Did it need special food? It spoke like a human, so she assumed it could eat what she did.

  “I need to go pee,” he leaned forward to whisper.

  She half turned. “My dog needs to pee.”

  Tall, blond and asshole nodded and threw a rolled-up newspaper across the room. “Doggy restroom right there for you.”

  She sighed, unrolling the paper and laying it on the floor for Fuzz. The dog hopped down and sniffed the paper. He circled round and round like a cat and then squatted. She looked away, relieved he was finally getting down to it.

  She waited, but after a couple of seconds... heading into a minute, there was no sound of doggy peeing. Casting a glance over her shoulder curiously, she saw Fuzzy, sitting on the paper and looking all forlorn. Possibly constipated.

  “You said you needed to pee,” she reminded him.

  “I can’t do it with him watching me,” her familiar wailed.

  Livvy sighed. This witch lark wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  “Okay, okay, I got you.”

  Standing, she maneuvered the remains of the suitcase so Fuzzy had a little privacy. All the while, she shot glares at the handsome sheriff behind his desk. Arsehole. On her last glare, she found him watching her.

  “What?”

  So maybe her tone was a little sharp and not as polite as her nanna had taught her to be. But then, he had thrown her in a cell, so he deserved everything he got.

  May the fleas of a thousand camels infect your arsehole, she cursed him in the safety of her head. And may your arms be too short to scratch.

  If she’d been a real witch, he’d have been in proper trouble. She’d have cursed him six ways to Sunday and enjoyed it. So sue her. She was supposed to be a fucking La Faye. She might as well act like her famous villainous ancestor.

  He pushed off from the desk, standing and sauntering toward the cell. She might have watched him every step of the way, but he was a good-looking guy. Feminine instinct, laws of nature... That was her story, and she was damn well sticking to it.

  Why was it, though, that the best-looking men were wankers? She could never work that one out.

  “Well?” she demanded as he braced his hands on the bars above his head and leaned in to look at her. “What do you want?”

  “What are you doing here?” he studied her like a hawk studied its prey.

  A shiver rolled down her spine, reacting to his closeness, but she shut that shit right down straight away. She wasn’t attracted to Sheriff Arsehole-McArsehole here, no matter how sexy he might be.

  “Right now?” Gorgeous but dense too. Never a good combination. She reached through the bars to poke a hard finger into his chest with each word as she replied. “Right now, I’m standing in a cell talking to you.”

  Idjit.

  He sighed, looking irritated, like she should be able to read his mind or something.

  “I meant, what are you doing here... In Bottomslick?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” And there it was. She opened her mouth and the snark escaped. Like it was such a good idea to gob off at the local policeman...

  “Actually, yes I would. That’s why I asked the goddamn question,” he rumbled, his voice dropping lower.

  “Bear!” Fuzzy squeaked and dived under the bed.

  “Oh, for god’s sake!” she spat in exasperation. “Will you shut up about bloody bears? Why do you keep saying that? He’s a man, not a bloody bear... Look, no fur in sight.”

  “Actually,” the sheriff said in a deep voice. Too deep. Growly. “Your familiar is quite right. I am a bear.”

  Her eyes widened, and she backed off a couple of steps from the bars. As she watched, his eyes darkened from piercing blue to black and the suggestion of fur spread over his skin only to disappear a second later.

  “A bear...” she managed, her voice little more than a whisper. “Shit, you’re a werebear.”

  Fuck my life, she bit back the groan. Talk about poking the bear. Literally.

  Amusement sparkled in his eyes as they returned to their former bright blue color and he winked. “Got it in one, sweetheart. No one can accuse you of not being quick on the uptake. Can they?”

  “Arsehole,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re enjoying this. Aren’t you?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He cupped his hand over his ear, leaning forward. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “You got enough,” she grumbled.

  “So, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in town?” he asked again. “Ain’t nothing here for your type.”

  His comment pissed her off all the more and she folded her arms, glare intensifying as she stared back at him. “Oh? And what type would that be? A witch? Aren’t you scared I’ll curse you?”

  She wiggled her fingers for effect, pretending to cast a spell over him.

  He laughed, crow’s feet crinkling in the corners of his eyes. Sexy good-looking bastard... She kept that thought to herself. He likely had women telling him that all the time, hence the arrogant attitude. Probably thought he was a sex god as well.

  “If you’re a witch, sweetheart, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Ketchup?” she asked sweetly. “Or Mayo? Would you like a side of fries with that?”

  His lips quirked again, but her attention caught on the poster on the wall behind him. A moment ago, it had been a wanted poster with the ubiquitous snarly mugshot of some low-level criminal, but it had changed, the picture disappearing and words scrawling over the blankness left in its place...

  Remember. Remember who you were before you forgot.

  She snapped her gaze back to his face. That fucking phrase would not leave her alone. What was it? It made no sense. How could she remember who she was before she forgot? Forgot what?

  She smiled sweetly. “You know, I didn’t think you guys would be so…so… witchist! That’s discrimination. Especially when you actually advertised for a witch. What is this?”

  Her voice rose in demand. “Some kind of fucking joke? Is some camera crew going to jump out of the cupboard or something to film my reaction? Screw you,” she hissed. “And your stupid little town.”

  His expression shifted, eyes searching hers.

  “What do you mean... Advertised?”

  She yanked the paper from her pocket with short, sharp movements.

  “This ad,” she said, shoving it under his nose. “And believe me, as soon as I get out of here, I’m going to bloody well call them and make a complaint. To the manager.”

  She smiled at a shocked expression. “Yeah, how’d you like them apples? Huh?”

  6

  Apples? Why were they talking about fruit? Brock sighed in confusion.
He couldn’t understand half of what the woman said.

  One thing couldn’t be argued with though. The advert he’d placed was right there, in print, right under his nose. Larger-than-life and twice as damning. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he realized he’d been wrong about her all along. She had answered the ad... There was no other explanation.

  He grunted noncommittally, still not ready to accept the truth that he’d completely and utterly fucked the situation up.

  “You can’t be a witch.”

  The words escaped without the apparent intervention of his brain. But then, his brain had ceased to operate correctly at the first sight of her beautiful face and curvaceous figure. He’d always made fun of the men in the pack when they found their mates and became obsessed with them. He’d thought they were idiots. Now he suspected he was the idiot.

  “Oh?” She thrust a hand on her hip. Ready for battle. It was a gesture any man was familiar with and knew to run for the freaking hills when he saw it.

  His bear recognized it, whining in the back of his mind. If he’d shifted, the creature would have cowered and covered its eyes with its paws. He strengthened his resolve. He was sheriff in this town, not her. She would do as she was told... If she wished to stay.

  “Witches don’t look like...”

  He waved a big hand in the general direction of her figure. He might not have much experience with witches—he’d only ever known Mistress Burdock—but he was fairly sure real witches didn’t look so... sexy.

  Her eyes widened, and those bee-stung lips pursed into a disapproving little pout.

  “Oh really?” He’d never heard those particular words heaped with so much disappointment and sarcasm. A perfectly plucked eyebrow rose toward her bangs. “I suppose I should have warts and a hunchback. Should I?”

  Abort mission, his instincts screamed. Retreat, retreat!

  He ignored them. They had no clue what they were on about.

  “Yes,” he nodded with a smile, glad she was getting with the program. Anything to stop the uncomfortable tightness south of his belt. Goddammit! First his bear, now his body itself... He seriously had to get ahold of himself. Not that kind of hold, he berated himself quickly as his imagination took the thought and ran with it, with the sexy little not-witch in the starring role.