“Oh dear.” She smiled faintly, already feeling the heat of arousal at the thought of Yiorgos storming into the kitchen in the morning, his fury a sight to behold. “I guess I’d better let him get his beauty sleep then. See you in the morning, Mr. LaRue.”
“Please, just call me Dmitri. I’ve known him for years, and I have to admit that I’ve never seen anyone handle him the way you did tonight. I have a feeling we’re going to be very good friends.”
Ashamed, she mumbled something she hoped was reasonably polite and headed to her car. After I’m done with his friend, Dmitri’s going to hate me.
She drove home slowly. Any other time she would’ve hit every single light heading out of town, but tonight she cleared Rangeline Road at a record clip. Of course it was the middle of the night and sane people had been in bed for hours. Maybe she’d luck out and her mother would be, too.
To avoid the creaking back door and squeaky steps, she used magic to transport directly into her room.
“Clare, thank God!” Selma shot to her feet from the foot of the bed. “Just what do you think you’re doing? Did you already sleep with the man?”
“Geez, Mom, have a little faith in your daughter. I’ve managed to stay a virgin twenty seven years. Even Yiorgos Michelopoulos couldn’t ruin me in a single night.”
“Did you get the ring?”
Weariness made Clare’s arms so heavy she struggled to shrug out of her jacket. Her mother stood to help her, earning a tired smile. “Not yet, but I saw it. He’s wearing it.”
“The arrogant bastard.” Her mother ground her teeth. “Did you find out what he wants?”
“He wants me to help Remy’s keep its five-star competition rating this year. From the condition of his kitchen, I can see why he’s so worried. I’ve never seen such a mess.”
“Is that all?”
Clare frowned, nibbling her lip in thought. That nagging sense of a trap still loomed, but nothing in his lengthy contract hinted to his true intent behind dragging her back to Remy’s. He’d made the prize very sweet indeed by offering to give the restaurant back to her. Without the signet ring, though, she’d be doomed to a cold and loveless life. “You think there’s a trap, too?”
“Of course. With men like that, there’s always an ulterior motive or two lurking beneath the surface. Just keep your head, Clare. He’s used to women throwing themselves at him.”
For some bizarre reason, she wanted to throw all the trinkets on top of her dresser onto the floor, scream at the top of her lungs, and maybe even stomp her foot for good measure. “I know, Mom. But of course he’d never actually look at me twice, right? As long as I keep my skirt down he’ll never even notice I’m a woman.”
“A man like him can have any woman he wants, Clare. Make sure he doesn’t want you and you’ll do fine.” She patted Clare on the back and headed to the door, unaware of the furious turmoil sweeping through her. “Keep just the way you are, dear.”
Sweet, pure and plain. When she wanted to be fabulous, gorgeous, and passionate.
For once in my life, I want to be an incredibly sexy wanton. I want to have a wild affair and tour the world with a gorgeous, rich man so in love with me that he’d sell his soul to keep me, bound to his bed, blindfolded and ready for his every wicked desire.
But the cost…
Would that be so horrible if Yiorgos Michelopoulos were the prize?
Blinking back tears, Clare climbed into her ridiculously frilly pink bed she’d had her entire life and pulled the covers up to her chin. She felt trapped in childhood, forever adolescent, a pimply, awkward teenager burning with unfulfilled desire. So unfair to face a cold, lonely life when she yearned to know passion.
She closed her eyes and Yiorgos’s stark, arrogant face rose in her mind. One minute the alpha tycoon determined to strip her of everything she hoped and dreamed without a single care, the next the vulnerable man fascinated with her gift. She wanted both sides of him. She yearned for the challenge of standing up to the arrogant man used to getting every single thing he ever wanted with a careless snap of his fingers.
She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face in the morning when he read the contract he’d signed.
She’d relish the fight. Already, her muscles burned with excitement, her breathing quickened. Every muscle in her body ached with longing.
For the man? Or the battle he offered?
She was terribly afraid she wanted them both. No matter the cost.
FOUR
The swinging door slammed against the wall with a crash that froze the entire kitchen.
At the stove, Clare didn’t even turn around. Her nerves sang with heightened sensation, energy leaping about her like lightning. This morning when she’d arrived, the restaurant had welcomed her with open arms. It’d certainly alerted her to the approaching storm.
“You.” Yiorgos Michelopoulos stomped over and clamped a hand on her arm, whirling her around to face him. “What have you done?”
She smiled brightly. “Good morning, Mr. Michelopoulos. I assume we’ll be open for business tonight?”
Unshaven and still in the incredibly tailored suit he’d worn last night that was now wrinkled beyond repair, he glared down at her. Eyes blazing, lips tight, nostrils pinched, he looked like he desperately wanted to wrap his big hand around her throat and throttle her.
“Out.”
Since he didn’t release her or look away from her face, she assumed he meant everyone else but her. She was actually rather impressed that he kept his tone even and controlled despite the fire flickering in his eyes.
“Do you care to explain what happened last night?”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “Isn’t that supposed to be the woman’s question when the man slips away before making her breakfast in bed?”
His eyes narrowed to obsidian slits. “As if I’d be interested in a woman like you.”
Her heart stuttered, skewered by a pain so severe that he might as well have picked up the butcher knife and stabbed her in the chest. I knew it was impossible from the very beginning. If he found me even the least bit attractive, this whole escapade would be pure hell.
She let out a little laugh that she hoped was carefree and lighthearted. “Of course not, Mr. Rich Beyond Belief. You were too busy devouring my cake to spare a single thought about me.”
His fingers tightened on her arm hard enough that she let the pain flicker across her face. Not that he cared in the slightest. “You drugged me.”
“No,” she said evenly, refusing to drop her gaze or show any alarm or concern. “I bespelled you.”
He snarled. “There’s a difference?”
“Surely a man knowledgeable enough to approach the Wizard Council would know that there’s most certainly a difference between a drug and a spell. You knew exactly what I was before you ever summoned me to Remy’s. You even ordered me to cook for you. What did you expect a kitchen witch to do? Skin you with my knife instead?”
“What did you do to me?” His voice rose with each word until he roared loudly enough to rattle the stemware.
“I gave you a dose of your own medicine, Mr. Michelopoulos. I beat you at your own game.”
He let go of her arm. By the way he flexed and clenched his fingers, he’d released her before doing serious harm. “What the hell does that mean?”
Wincing, she rubbed her biceps, making sure he saw exactly how he’d hurt her. “You deliberately wrote up a ridiculously meticulous contract meant to bedazzle me with terms and money, while waving the deed to Remy’s beneath my nose. You thought I’d be too stupid to see your game. Ply the little lady with some wine, pay a few compliments, smile seductively, and she’ll fall head over heels into your schemes, right? Well, wrong. You picked the wrong patsy this time, Mr. Michelopoulos.”
“I didn’t agree to a modification to the terms.”
“I asked you if I could modify the agreement in front of a witness. Shall we call Dmitri back in here? If I need him to testif
y in a court of law, I’ll subpoena him.”
“I was under duress. No court in the world would award rights to a witch who’d deliberately bespelled her target by plying him with…with…”
“Chocolate cake? Oh, how dreadfully sinister of me. Seriously, do you think your high and mighty reputation can withstand such a ridiculous case, Mr. Michelopoulos? I can see the headlines now: Tycoon bamboozled by kitchen witch; claims the chocolate cake did him in.”
He slammed his fist down on the island so hard that a stainless steel bowl fell off and clattered on the floor, spilling sliced potatoes all over the spotless tile. “Hear me now, witch. I cannot…will not… give you that damned ring. Never!”
The woman didn’t comprehend what she’d done. What an absolute mess. The mild headache he’d awoken with this morning had blossomed into a full-fledged jackhammer slamming into his skull. When he’d scanned the contract she’d signed last night to make sure all was in order, he’d nearly given himself an aneurism.
The cunning witch had tricked him out of the ring. The one thing he must absolutely not remove from his finger. Barely biting back the foulest curse words he knew, he twisted the signet on his finger and seriously contemplated removing it. Let her see the full nightmare she threatened him with.
But doubt and caution prevailed. Did she know what her father had done to him? Would she hate him even less—or more because of the abomination he’d become? Why the hell did he care what she thought anyway?
Oh, he knew. He just didn’t want to think about it.
So few people dared to challenge him. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had met him head-on in a contractual negotiation and won so stunningly well. His pride might argue that she’d used trickery and witchcraft to accomplish it, but he had to admit she’d impressed the hell out of him. Even at his worst, she hadn’t backed down from the force of his anger.
No. She stood toe to toe with him. That kind of courage, in a woman, no less, was a heady challenge for a man like him. He couldn’t resist the lure of her gauntlet. What lengths would she go in order to win? How sweetly would she submit when he ultimately defeated her? Would she wilt into surrender…or simply use that moment of victory to knee him in the crotch?
Pacing the length of the kitchen, he shoved the ring harder onto his finger. Not yet. Until he better understood his opponent, he couldn’t risk playing his worst card so soon. If he revealed the desperation behind his scheming, she’d have the upper hand. For all he knew, she’d take his story to the press, the Wizard Council, anyone who’d listen, and there were plenty of moneygrubbers who’d be willing to pay a princely sum for dirt on the Michelopoulos tycoon.
Why did she want the damned ring anyway? Sentimentality? Or something more sinister? After the display of her power last night, he couldn’t in good conscience give her a single advantage, especially something so powerful as to make his body rot a little more every single day.
“I must have my father’s ring.” She spoke quietly but with firm resolve. The little fool even dared to step closer, laying a hand on his arm.
He whipped his head around and snarled at her. “You’ll never have it as long as I’m alive.” Which might not be much longer. God, let me simply die instead of roaming the world as a rotting corpse.
“Why not?”
He gritted his teeth, fighting down the rising beast. He was losing control of himself and the creature he was becoming. The thought made his hands shake and she squeezed his arm soothingly, as if she could see the turmoil straining in him. “After your game last night, I know you’re a smart woman, Ms. Remy. You figure it out.”
“All right.”
Thankfully, she released him, but he could still feel the warm outline of her palm on his forearm despite the layers of clothing. While she paced slowly about the kitchen, she rolled her hands up and down in the apron.
“I ate at your casino restaurant in Kansas City once. You weren’t there, of course—too busy jetsetting around the globe on business, I guess. My father made friends with our waiter and finally convinced him to let us see the kitchens.”
“Tell me who it was, and I’ll fire the traitor.”
She flashed a look over her shoulder at him that… Impossible. Had the woman actually stuck her tongue out at him?
“We were awestruck. That kitchen had nothing but the latest and best equipment. You must have poured half your fortune into the stoves alone, and the refrigerators went on and on.” Her rich voice lured him in, wrapping him up like a kid in a toasty quilt, listening to a bedtime story. “Row after row of exotic vegetables, fruits I’d never heard of let alone tasted. It was like a gourmet fairyland. I remember feeling guilty, because I loved Remy’s so much, but I coveted that larder. I wanted to try the blood oranges our markets never carried. And those thick meaty fish steaks! Still on ice, they smelled fresh out of the ocean, not fishy like our supplier’s.”
She turned and faced him, her gaze searching his. He couldn’t help but shiver at the faint angel wings brushing over his face. Her magic? Or merely his own fanciful response to her tale? Or the woman herself?
“The produce was fresh and gorgeous, not wilted. I would have eaten off the floors, and the stainless steel shone like mirrors. Yet when I came to Remy’s last night, it looked like the greasiest truckstop on the freeway. So I have to wonder if you’d allow a kitchen to disintegrate into disorder and filth out of spite? Because you hated my father’s success so very much? Or was there something more sinister happening here?”
“You tell me.”
“What did my father do to you, Mr. Michelopoulos?”
Fury cascaded through him, crushing him beneath boulders of regret and frustration. Nothing he did could stop this curse. It didn’t matter how much money he possessed or how many businesses he owned worldwide, nothing could save him.
Nothing but this fearless little witch who intrigued him like no woman he’d ever met.
Decision made, he squared his shoulders and faced her. “Your father cursed me, Ms. Remy, and I need your help to break it.”
Frozen, Clare stared at him, trying to connect her beloved chef father with someone who Yiorgos claimed had cursed him. “A curse is a serious spell. Daddy wouldn’t have cast such a spell lightly.”
“Explain.”
The way he barked his commands made her arch a brow at him, but she chose not to engage him in this battle. He was an extremely arrogant and self-assured man used to getting every single thing he wanted it, the moment he ordered it. Thankfully, he doesn’t want me. She ignored the twisting cut of the knife in the general region of her heart. “It’s going to be a lengthy conversation, Mr. Michelopoulos. Would you like a pot of tea while we talk?”
“When are you going to start calling me Yiorgos?” Briskly, he turned to an expensive barista-quality espresso machine that hadn’t graced the kitchen in her father’s time. “Besides, tea is for stuffy old ladies in silly hats. I’ll make a cup of coffee that’ll grow hair on your chest, while you explain how a curse works.” So I can break it.
He didn’t say the last aloud, but now his carefully worded contract began to make more sense. He desperately wanted to break this so-called curse, and he suspected she might know how to do so. Even if her father had cursed Yiorgos—which she highly doubted—she didn’t have a clue how to break it.
Of course, Michelopoulos didn’t…couldn’t…know that. If he suspected she was of no use to him, she’d be kicked out of Remy’s so fast she wouldn’t even have time to remove the apron. She’d certainly lose her chance of regaining not only the restaurant but the Remy family legacy as well. If, and that was a huge if, the man would uphold the contract he’d signed, arguably under duress.
She didn’t know much about the real man behind the famous tycoon façade, but she suspected he valued his word of honor above winning this war with her father that had gone on way too long.
“If I’m going to have motor oil in a cup, then I need lots of cream.” Laughing light
ly at the scowl he shot over his shoulder, she pulled out a carton of half and half from the fridge. When he set the steaming cup of coffee in front of her—straight jet black and so strong just the smell of it made her eyes water—she poured as much cream as possible into the cup so that it nearly overflowed. “Besides, you never gave me permission to use your Christian name, Mr. Michelopoulos, and according to our contract, you’re my employer.”
The furrow between his eyes deepened into formidable caverns. “That contract is null and void.”
“Oh, thank God,” she breathed out heavily, letting her shoulders slump. “I was afraid I was going to be stuck working for you.”
“You are,” he retorted without any real heat. He drew up a high stool opposite her at the large island. Sipping his cup, he closed his eyes—evidently in bliss, not revulsion. For the first time since she’d arrived yesterday, he appeared more human and less the caricature of the billionaire playboy. If he was deliberately letting her peek into his real life in order to sway her into helping him, it was working.
Ruefully, she wrapped a hand around the mug and tried not to stare. The man was gorgeous and rich and brilliant. Evidently he possessed a soul, too.
“Well, then, Ms. Remy, I shall ask the most difficult question first. Do you hate me too much to help me?”
Surprised, she searched his face. He was trying for bland and smooth, but he kept his eyes guarded, veiling his secrets in those dark depths. True vulnerability? Or merely stage two of his conquest? She couldn’t be sure. “I never said I hated you.” She took a sip of coffee and nearly spluttered it all over his immaculate shirt. “Oh dear.”
His lips curled in the first genuine smile he’d bestowed on her. “A bit stout?”
The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) Page 4