“All right.”
He doesn’t trust me. Why should he? Why does it even matter?
As he slipped the truffle into his mouth, she swore a piece of her heart cracked off and crumbled to dust.
Horror tightened Yiorgos’s throat. His eyes bulged. His heart hammered frantically in his chest. A feeling of such impotent rage crashed through him that he couldn’t breathe. His mind whirled and raced, searching for a way to reach his body, but he couldn’t move. He rolled his eyes desperately, trying to get Clare’s attention.
She can stop this. She can help me.
She jerked forward as though she heard his silent scream for help, but her mentor grabbed her arm and held her back.
“Stand up,” the older witch said.
With all his will, he screamed at his body to stay put. He strained every muscle, rebelling, fighting, but he jerked to his feet like a marionette.
“Walk.”
His breath rasped, his skin crawling with revulsion, yet he couldn’t stop. His leg moved forward, jerky and stiff, but it moved. He walked. No matter how much he wanted to break free.
Is this what it feels like to be raped? This horrible inability to stop what’s happening to me?
The violation of his body…his will…made him insane with rage.
“Do you like this feeling, Mr. Michelopoulos?”
No, he screamed inside his mind. No, a thousand times no!
But no word escaped his throat—because she hadn’t allowed it.
“Say yes,” she said.
With a twitch of her witchy fingers, she dragged the word out of him. “Yes.”
His throat felt raw, like the word had ripped flesh on the way out. Sweat trickled down his back, plastering his shirt to his body.
“Clare, dear, what is it you want most from Mr. Michelopoulos? Ask now and I’ll make him give it to you.”
Dread crushed his chest, boulders stacked until he couldn’t breathe. Not the ring. He couldn’t bear if she saw him rotting, dead, flesh hanging from his bones.
“No,” she whispered, her voice quivering as badly as his straining body.
He would have sagged with relief if the witch allowed him to, but Helga waved her fingers, forcing him to whirl around in a giddy circle.
“Ask, Clare. He can’t resist me now. He’ll give you whatever you want with a smile on his face.”
His mouth rose in a garish clown smile, his cheeks aching with strain.
“You’ll have to hurry, though, dear.” Helga’s voice didn’t have quite the same booming quality. He glared at the woman, straining with every ounce of will to leap forward and bash her head in. “He’s very strong. I can’t hold him much longer.”
“No!” Clare shouted at him, not her mentor.
Freed from the spell, he leaped forward, hands outstretched. I’ll wring the woman’s damned neck for trapping me like that!
Clare crashed into him. Her arms wrapped around him, her scent rich and sweet, and the memory of tasting her cake rolled through his mind. He stilled, letting her hold him. Comforting him, he realized, because he was shaking from head to foot from fighting the witch’s spell.
Closing his eyes, he sagged against her, just for a moment, soaking in her comforting scent.
A heavy thump made her jerk out of his arms and turn to her mentor. “Helga!”
The woman had fallen against the table. Arms trembling, she struggled around the edge and fell heavily into his chair. Clare rushed to her, swiping unruly auburn hair out of Helga’s clammy face now ghostly pale.
Clare felt the woman’s pulse, biting her lip. “Your heart’s beating too fast. What can I do to help you?”
“Nothing, dear,” the other woman gasped, patting her hand. “I’m just exhausted. He’s like wresting an angry bear, isn’t he? I’m surprised you haven’t given up on him already.”
Forcing himself to move slowly and calmly, he stepped over to the kitchen and asked Dmitri to bring them a pitcher of ice water and three glasses. Inside, he was still a smoldering, roiling volcano of fury. He’d never been so powerless before, trapped and vulnerable and unable to protect himself. His greatest fears all wrapped up into one wicked witch with a ridiculous pink-haired skull blazing on her chest and pink polka-dotted tutu.
Suddenly he understood some of Clare’s upset. He’d accused her of casting spells like that—basically raping him with her magic. No wonder she’d been so insulted and horrified.
“I apologize, Mr. Michelopoulos,” Helga said in a breathy, fragile voice so unlike the boisterous woman who’d waltzed in earlier. “That was an extreme demonstration, but I felt it was necessary, given the urgency of your situation.”
Reluctant gratitude twisted in his stomach. At least she hadn’t blurted the whole truth out to Clare. You see, dear, Mr. Michelopoulos is a walking corpse, and he needs your magic to break the curse.
“If you can’t trust Clare, she can’t help you,” Helga continued, her voice regaining some of its vigor. “And Remy’s deserves the absolute best. I couldn’t allow your misplaced trust to interfere in saving her father’s legacy. Now you know what subterfuge via magic feels like. You also see the extreme wear on the witch attempting such a spell. If you can help me to my car, I’ll ask my driver to take me straight home so I can sleep for a day or two to recover.”
Clare clucked over her mentor, making sure she had a glass of water first, offering a shoulder for the woman to lean on heavily as they left. Yiorgos remained silent, trying to reconcile everything in his mind. He’d never forget that horrible feeling of being controlled by an external force as long as he lived.
And he’d never forget the molten heat that filled him whenever he took a bite of Clare’s cake. Or looked at her deliciously curvy body. Even when she was furious at him, she made him feel like he was intoxicated, more vibrantly alive than ever before.
Will I ever be able to smell or taste chocolate again and not think about Clare Remy melting in my arms?
EIGHT
Her mentor had compared Mr. Michelopoulos to a bear, but Clare decided that wasn’t at all the right description for him. While the kitchen staff worked in a flurry about her to push out the evening’s dishes, he prowled through the restaurant like a sleek lion. Magnificent. Regal. And oh so deadly.
He’d been shaken enough after Helga’s demonstration to leave Clare alone for the rest of the afternoon. They were also too busy for chitchat during the evening rush. That didn’t stop him from pacing through her domain every once and awhile, his dark eyes gleaming with…
What, exactly? Which was the crux of her problem. She didn’t know him well enough to tell what he was thinking or feeling. He hid his emotions too well behind that familiar tycoon exterior. Did he still suspect foul play on her part, manipulating his emotions or his libido to accomplish her wicked plots? Worse, had he accepted the idea that for whatever bizarre reason, he might actually be attracted to her?
Because if the lion decided he was going to feast on her tender morsels, she was terribly afraid she’d leap right into his vicious jaws, no matter the consequences.
She sighed and patted her sweaty brow with a towel. That’s exactly why she dressed, talked, and acted like she did. She had to hide her true nature, even if she was fooling everybody but herself.
Even if I burn to find out exactly how Yiorgos makes love. Slow and long and tender? Or sweaty, hard, and fast?
Both.
Her cheeks heated and it wasn’t the ovens raising her body temperature.
The last of the dessert plates went out, leaving her a minute to catch her breath. Of course Michelopoulos just happened to prowl back through the kitchen, probably trying to scavenge a plate for himself. Lord help me if he finds out where I stashed the Death by Chocolate Cake.
“Why do you hide your body beneath such shapeless clothes?”
Heat scalded her cheeks and she spluttered. “That’s none of your business.”
“You said you thought you were chubby. Are y
ou ashamed of what you look like?”
To keep herself busy and her body distracted, she buried her hands in the sink and began washing the last of the dirty pots. “Not at all,” she finally said. “I’m a kitchen witch and I love food. I’m never going to be a slender slip of a girl and I’m totally fine with that.”
“Then why hide?”
She wanted to blurt, I’m not hiding… But I am. Oh, I am. I must. “I’ve learned it’s much better to appear normal and innocuous to the world around me, Mr. Michelopoulos. Most people don’t even think wizards exist, let alone that I can do what I can with magic.”
“Ms. Kettlewich doesn’t hide.”
Clare let a grin quirk her lips. “Absolutely not. She’s wild, loud, and in your face.”
“You could be, too.”
She rinsed the pot and set it into the rack. When he picked it up and started to dry it, she nearly fell over with shock. “That’s not me, Mr. Michelopoulos. I’m a much quieter sort of person.”
“Out of necessity or choice?”
“Both.” She handed him the next pot and he brushed his fingers over the back of her hand. She couldn’t help but suck in a deep breath and hope he didn’t notice the zing sparking between their skin. “Some people like to be the center of attention, the star of the show. I’m much more happy hiding in the kitchen and churning out the food.”
“But how do you know if you’ve never been the center of attention?”
“The very thought gives me hives,” she said flatly, drying her hands on her apron. “I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.”
His dark eyes searched her face, and she was terribly afraid he saw right through all the disguises she thrust at him to keep the world at bay. “And if you gain Remy’s in our little venture…?”
“I can’t imagine anything better than taking over my father’s restaurant, unless I’m able to teach at the Academy as well.”
“I assume the Academy is very exclusive and demanding.”
“It is. The trials alone are more like a marathon than a job interview.”
“Tell me about them.”
She tilted her head, trying to figure out why he wanted to know. Curiosity? Or was he trying to find a way to slither out of the contract with some bizarre moonlighting clause or something? “The Wizard Council runs the Academy and all of them teach in their specialty. To be honest, a training position at the Academy is a starting point for anyone who’s being groomed to step onto the Council someday.”
“So if you make it into the Academy, you’ll basically be Helga’s heir apparent.”
“Exactly. It’s a huge step in my career, the same as winning a coveted five-star rating for your restaurant. It won’t be the end of the world if I don’t make it in this time but…”
He waited silently, which was oddly harder for her to resist than if he’d belligerently demanded the answer he wanted.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t make it into the Academy.”
He didn’t frown, exactly, but the lines deepened on his face. She was starting to recognize more of his tells. When he acted the lordly tycoon, he was lying or hiding something he didn’t want her to know. When those lines appeared between his eyes, he was thinking. Plotting.
And that’s a very scary thing.
Over the next few days, Yiorgos made it a point to show up in the kitchen randomly and frequently. There was so much about Clare Remy that intrigued him—because it just didn’t make sense. She was like her fabulous cake—deep and rich and mysterious, layer after layer. The ugly clothes were just the frosting, far less tasty than her buttercream, and hiding the more delicate cakes underneath.
I’m determined to unwrap her, layer by layer, until I find what she’s hiding, so far deep down that even she may not know.
One of his favorite tools to use in order to judge a person’s character better was a sort of word association game. Dmitri would still play with him occasionally but he wasn’t a challenge any more. He knew Dmitri inside and out. The man wouldn’t be able to surprise him again.
Clare, on the other hand, was a wealth of surprises that he couldn’t resist trying to unbury.
Pausing at her shoulder as she chopped vegetables, he asked, “Merlot or Chablis?”
Her mouth quirked into that crooked grin. “What’s the protein?”
“None. The wine is just for sipping.”
She nodded slightly. “Neither.”
His eyebrows raised slightly but he didn’t pester her with another question. Yet. Part of the game was baiting her into playing with him, and if he pushed too hard, he couldn’t trust her answers.
He waited until the kitchen was in full swing, hot and frantic and crowded as everyone scrambled to satisfy a packed house. Clare was plating perfectly cooked lamb chops with the sous-chef dressed the garnish. They had rows of dishes to do and little time to chat.
“Champagne?” He raised his voice above the clamor, although she didn’t look up from her work. “Or Shiraz?”
“Neither!” She yelled back at him.
Pushing his luck, he asked again. “Cabernet sauvignon?”
She blew a dangling tendril out of her face but still didn’t look up at him. “No.”
So he glided out of the kitchen to leave her in peace, but he couldn’t resist smiling. He had a pretty good idea, now, not only of her taste in wine but her temperament. Anyone who’ll take the time to answer inane questions while extremely busy deserves a gold star for patience.
With the evening coming to a close, he found her still in the kitchen tidying up long after she’d sent everyone else home. Silently, he helped hang the rest of the pots and sharpen her knives. She looked tired tonight, but pleased, he decided, noting the soft glow in her eyes despite the slower, heavier pace she set now that the rush was over.
At the back door, she picked up her jacket—another huge boxy shapeless creation to hide the magnificence of her backside in tight jeans.
“I don’t think you’ll need the coat any longer,” he said softly, watching her face. It was a balmy spring night, but that’s not what he meant.
Ignoring him, she started to put it on, so he took the opportunity to hold it up for her, earning a tired smile of thanks. Engulfed in a jacket big enough for them both, she hesitated at the open door. “Have you figured out the wine yet?”
Slowly, he smiled with genuine amusement. “Moscato.”
“Moscato d’Asti is my favorite.” She laughed softly. “How’d you know?”
Sweet and bubbly, just like you, if only I can find the way to uncork you. He shrugged. “Just a hunch. Good night, Clare.”
Deliberately, he used her given name, hoping she might rise to the challenge and use his name in return.
“Good night, Mr. Michelopoulos.”
Nodding, he didn’t allow the smile to spread on his face. If she knew how much I enjoyed the challenge of winning her over to using my name, then she wouldn’t have thrown down the gauntlet.
Without her even knowing how it began, Clare found herself immersed in his games. Surely that’s all they were.
He can’t possibly be seriously…pursuing…me.
It had started so innocently with the wine question. One day, he asked chocolate or caramel. Well, duh, chocolate, obviously, or she would have created Death by Caramel Cake. Strawberry or raspberry? Cheddar or brie?
Before she knew it, he wasn’t asking food questions, though. Again, the questions were so innocuous…at first…that she hadn’t been alarmed. Skirt or dress? Tank or T-shirt? Blue or green?
Boxers or briefs, Mr. Michelopoulos? She mused to herself, washing the last of the dishes. Or better yet, how about nothing at all…
She loved the quiet late-night hours alone in the kitchen. Around her, the restaurant seemed to sigh with pleasure, as satiated as the customers she’d sent home with full bellies to sleep off the mild intoxication of her magic with sweet dreams. She didn’t mind managing the last details of the nightly clea
n-up duty, simply so she could revel in the aftereffects of well-used magic.
With her hands deep in soapy water, she could close her eyes and imagine she was in a hot tub, soaking in the glorious pleasure curling around her. Heat and relaxation, strong muscles, a powerful masculine body to lean back against…
She came to with a jerk only to realize the last part had not been a daydream.
Yiorgos loomed behind her, his arms braced on either side of her body on top of the sink, caging her against the counter. Even though he didn’t lean against her or touch her more than the subtle brush of his arms against hers, she could feel the heat radiating from him. And of course, she felt the implicit threat of his much bigger, stronger body that could overpower her at a moment’s notice.
His warm breath fluttered over her neck and ear, sending her heart into police-chase acceleration.
“Satin or silk?” He whispered with the barest brush of his lips against her ear.
Shivering, she clutched the pot tighter in both hands, fighting the temptation to drop the dirty dish and whirl around to busy her soapy hands into helping him out of his clothes. He’d discarded the suit jacket he typically wore during the dinner service. The long sleeves of his fine white shirt were rolled up, baring the cords and tendons of his powerful forearms.
Such a careless display of masculine beauty left her knees weakened. Her body moistened, muscles tightening and softening at the same time. She could all too easily imagine those arms braced on either side of her head as he thrust into her body.
“Wha..what?”
“Satin,” he whispered more fully against her ear with a low chuckle of male amusement. “Or silk?”
Her brain just wouldn’t work. She couldn’t put the words together into anything that made sense to her. “Neither?” Her voice sounded too squeaky and unsure, so she spoke more firmly. “I don’t have experience with either of them.”
“Are you sure?” He nuzzled her neck just below her ear, trailing moist tendrils of fire through her skin. “Because you feel like silk against my mouth.”
The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) Page 8