The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance)

by Joely Sue Burkhart

  He couldn’t help but wince. “I even decided we’d be married in Greece.”

  “Did you even ask her if she wanted to marry you?”

  He closed his eyes with shame.

  Helga didn’t wait for his admission of guilt. “She went from a talented witch on the verge of joining the Academy with a shining future on the Wizard Council to simply a woman entirely dependent on you. Yes, you’re a wealthy and influential man, but a woman like Clare needs more. She needs to exist without you to be complete. Only then can she be happy as your wife, because she has a solid core of confidence that can weather even your bossiness.”

  He wanted to take offense, but she was right. It’d been that strength and courage that had first drawn him to Clare. That knowledge that she’d take him at his worst and smack him—or kiss him—depending on what she wanted.

  “She wants you, Yiorgos Michelopoulos, but she doesn’t need you.” Helga leaned down to whisper in his ear, making him shudder with fear at what she would do. “But I do. I need you to bring her power back greater than ever. So I’m going to help you win her back. Are you willing to do what I say?”

  The thing on his neck tightened so he could barely get the words out. “It depends on what you want. I won’t hurt or betray her in any way.”

  “Of course not.” Helga purred, trailing her nails along his neck just above his collar. “All I need you to do is love her. Do you love her, Yiorgos?”

  “Yes.” The word burned on his tongue, catching flame through his body. In a sudden flash, his brains turned to ash.

  “Ah, you felt that. Very good. Imagine what a lie will feel like. How far are you willing to go for her? What will you endure for her?”

  His heart thundered frantically but he forced the words out again. “For Clare, anything.”

  Flames licked his heart and he couldn’t suppress the gasp. It wasn’t exactly pain, but the sensation of magic moving and slithering inside him was uncomfortable to say the least.

  “Truth. Very good. Come back here tomorrow for her trials and bring the Remy signet. However, you mustn’t let her know you’re here until the Council judges her performance. Do you understand? You may watch, but we both must allow her to fail or pass on her own merits. You won’t interfere in any way.”

  Braced for the flood of truth-searing heat, he said, “I understand.” Molten rock roared in his veins and he gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out again.

  “Afterward, you may give her the Remy ring. You may even ask for her hand in marriage. But this time, Yiorgos, I recommend that you actually ask her, as humbly as an arrogant man like you manage. Do you understand and agree to abide by these conditions?”

  “Yes!”

  His ears popped and he swayed a moment, disoriented. He’d expected the spell to wring him dry and punish him for his failures, so the mild pulse in his blood was anticlimactic.

  Helga patted him on the shoulder again and shuffled back to her chair. She sank down behind her desk like she’d just run a marathon and her face was sweaty and gray.

  Reluctantly, he asked, “Are you all right, Ms. Kettlewich?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be fine in a moment. You’re so very strong. I’m even more impressed with what Clare managed to do now. No doubt she’ll surpass me in strength once she wears the Remy ring. If Emile hadn’t helped me with the initial casting, we never could have lassoed you for our spell.”

  Curiosity made him ask questions he wasn’t sure that she would answer…or that he’d care to hear the truth. “If I’m so difficult, why did you curse me in the first place? Wouldn’t any man do?”

  “Not at all. Sacrifice, Mr. Michelopoulos. It powers the spell. Emile Remy was willing to risk his entire inheritance in order to cast this spell for his daughter’s future. Clare, on the other hand, was willing to risk everything in order to save you. She had to love you beyond any mild attraction or lust she might feel for any other man in order for the sacrifice to power the spell.”

  “But how did you pick me? How did you know she’d love me and that I would love her?”

  The batty old witch winked at him. “There’s a spell for that too.”

  FOURTEEN

  The Academy witch trials were too much like a public execution for Clare’s nerves. Or reality television. Either way, a new personal level of hell.

  If having the most powerful witches and wizards in the world sitting at an arched table watching her every move wasn’t enough to rattle her nerves, the upper tier of the teaching kitchen had been opened to the general wizard public. Past and current students crowded in, eagerly watching as she moved about the shiny testing kitchen. All they needed were some lights and cameras and they could start a new Iron Chef trend.

  Hopefully they sat too far away to notice how badly her hands were shaking.

  After practicing until she nearly fell asleep propped up against the counter, she had to admit that Helga had been right. Her magic wasn’t gone, not like she’d thought. It was simply buried deep down inside her. Each time she tried to access the gift, it was like wading through hip-deep mud while carrying boulders, just to bring up a drop or two of talent.

  However, her fingers remembered what a chef’s knife felt like. Her hands remembered how to rock the blade quickly and smoothly to dice vegetables. And of course her taste buds definitely still worked.

  Timing had been the hardest thing for her to master without ready access to her magic, which forced her to refine her menu plans. She couldn’t pick dishes that were too simple, or else the Council would be disappointed in her level of expertise. Yet she couldn’t pick something so complex that she lost track of time and forgot a crucial step in the rush of preparing a full three-course dinner.

  Even more importantly, she had to remember to pace herself, because already her knees trembled. And I still have the most difficult dish to pull off.

  In the end, she’d decided to use Yiorgos’s Greek background for inspiration. The appetizer had included soft, warm pita bread lightly fried in a pan until the outside was crispy, olive tempanada, and paper-thin slices of lamb with all the gyros fixings. For the main course, she’d seared tender filet of beef topped with caramelized onions, a rich Gorgonzola cream sauce balanced by a balsamic reduction, and served over fresh handmade linguini.

  So far, everything had gone well. She was sweating from the strain, but she hadn’t burned or messed up anything. As far as the audience was concerned, no one but Helga and her mother could possibly know that she’d done it all with very little magic at all. But for this, her pièce de résistance, she had to use every drop of magic she could muster.

  She closed her eyes a moment. Immediately, Yiorgos’s face rose in her mind. Dark eyes blazing with heat despite the scowl on his face, tempting her to provoke the beast even more. He’d taken everything from her father, but then accidentally given her so much back. She’d come into her full confidence as a kitchen witch in Remy’s kitchen, and as a woman in his bed. Beyond her wildest dreams, he desired her.

  He loves me.

  Taking all that heart-rending emotion, she drew on the wellspring inside her, pulling as hard as she could on the shimmering gift. A thick wall of concrete and boulders met her touch, but beyond, she could sense the power. Through tiny cracks in the wall, her magic trickled, and she gathered up as much as she could.

  Hopefully it’ll be enough.

  As she put the final layer on top, she had to rest a moment against the counter. Breathing heavily, she wiped her brow with the tail of her apron. Her knees shook in earnest, but she forced her body to cooperate. Just a little longer, and I can rest. I can sleep for a week. Or maybe… If I were really getting a wish-come-true, I’d crawl into bed with Yiorgos and find out how much he really likes chocolate frosting.

  She paused a moment to examine the cake with a critical eye. As far as she could tell, it was as good as the original Death by Chocolate Cake she’d made for him. Only he would be able to tell if she’d succeeded without her ful
l magic or not. Would he still feel compelled to eat piece after piece?

  As she cut the first piece, the unthinkable happened. She knicked her thumb with the serrated knife. Not badly, but the red mark was glaringly obvious. Gasps and whispers rumbled through the auditorium.

  A real kitchen witch would never cut herself with her own knife.

  For a moment, she stared at that tell-tale sign of her failure, eyes burning hot and dry. Everyone knew, now. She’d lost her gift. Would it affect the Council’s decision?

  Pushing down her doubts, she wiped the blood onto her apron and picked up the knife again like nothing had happened. As she cut and served the other pieces, the whispers died down, but anxiety hung like a distant storm threatening to break. Or maybe that was only her nerves as she waited for the Council to confer.

  The bearded judge on the end only ate a few bites of his cake. Did that mean he hated it? Helga ate all of hers, but she could be forcing it down just to make her student look more acceptable. The whispers went on and on, a steady annoying drone that started a headache at her temples. Biting her lip, she refused to give in to the stress and rub her forehead.

  Helga stood and the whispers died down. Silence stretched, while everyone simply looked at her. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and she hid her hands in her apron.

  “Clare Remy, step forward.”

  Lifting her chin a bit higher, she calmly walked forward and stood before the arced table. None of the judges knew her but Helga, and they were all adept at hiding their emotions. She had no idea what the outcome was. Heart hammering, she searched her mentor’s face, but even Helga managed to keep her face deadpan.

  “The Council has a few questions for you before we make our final decision.”

  Not usual, but not entirely unheard of, either. She nodded and cleared her throat, ready to confess her crimes. Yes, I lost my virginity. I’m not a kitchen witch any longer. No, I don’t have my father’s ring. No…

  “What do you call that cake, young lady?”

  She turned her attention to the bearded man on the end. He looked to be approximately forty years old, but he sounded older, like a grandfather. Ages with wizards could get tricky, especially for those who could cast illusions. “Death by Chocolate Cake, sir.”

  He harrumphed. “Appropriately named, then. That much chocolate could kill somebody.”

  Her cheeks burned but she let out a low laughter meant to titillate. “Or convince them to kill someone for me.”

  The other judges smiled and a few even chuckled.

  Helga let out her trademark belly laugh. “Why, I think it might even sweeten you up, Bronson.”

  Clare swayed slightly before she caught herself and stiffened her spine. Bronson March was one of the oldest and most talented druids left in Europe. Just to have him taste her food was an honor, let alone to have him sit on the judgment panel for her trials.

  “I’ve had the honor of tasting this cake many times,” Helga said more formally. “I noticed you made a slight change to the recipe but I couldn’t tell what it was. Would you elaborate?”

  “Cinnamon,” she whispered, clearing her throat again to gain some volume. “I added just a touch of cinnamon.” For Yiorgos.

  “Interesting,” one of the other female judges said around another bite. “Yes, I do taste it. Too much would have made the cake too bitter.”

  “And you would have lost the exquisitely tart zing of raspberry,” another said.

  “Too many layers.” Bronson said loudly, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. Then he winked at Clare and picked up another bite. “But very good, young lady. I think I’ll be going home about ten stone heavier this trip.”

  “Thank you, Mr. March,” she managed to say without stumbling over her tongue like an idiot.

  “Well, shall we make it official?” Helga stood and looked down the table at each of the other judges. One by one they all nodded. She raised her voice so everyone in the auditorium would hear. “Clare Remy is hereby accepted into the Wizard Council Academy!”

  The din that ensured was a blur. Clare smiled and hugged and thanked everybody endlessly. Her mother squeezed her so hard she couldn’t help but cry a little. Mr. March actually kissed her cheek and whispered that he’d very much like the recipe for Death by Chocolate Cake if she’d be so kind as to write it down for him. So many faces blurred and finally Helga took pity on her and shooed everyone away.

  “Classes don’t start for three weeks, dear.” Helga kissed both of her cheeks. “I don’t expect to see you anywhere near your new teaching kitchen for at least two full weeks, do you hear me?”

  She nodded and hugged her mentor again. “Thank you,” she whispered, fighting back tears. Happy, exhausted, elated, yes, but deep down, she could feel the throbbing echo of loneliness. It would have been nice to share this moment with Yiorgos.

  “I hope you can forgive me for everything we put you through. Emile wanted nothing but the best for you.” Helga gave her one last squeeze and headed for the door, leaving her in the quiet kitchen to clean up. “He’d be proud of you,”

  As she started cleaning up, peace began to fill into the cracks anxiety and stress had left behind in her spirit. She’d never felt so tired after cooking, yet completely replete at the same time. I did it, Daddy.

  “I hope you saved a piece for me.”

  The low, distinctive voice behind her made her whirl around so fast she almost dropped the soapy cake pan. “Yiorgos,” she whispered, her throat aching. “You came.”

  “Of course I came.” He leaned against the counter, divinely gorgeous without even trying. Today he’d dressed simply in jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He might be trying for casual, but he still looked too elegant for words.

  And she couldn’t miss his secret message to her. Denim and cotton. My kind of clothes.

  “Nothing would keep me from you, not wild horses, zombie curses, or crazy kitchen witches who refuse to tell me where you are.”

  She turned back to the sink, determined to be strong. Looking at him would prove hazardous to her health. “There’s one piece left. You’re welcome to it.”

  Nerve endings danced up and down her spine, demanding she sneak a quick peek to see where he was. Whether he’d moved closer or not. While her mind whirled frantically. What does he want? Why’s he here?

  “I don’t mind if I do, sweetheart.”

  The sound of his endearment curled inside her like a wicked flame. She washed faster and forced an edge to her voice. “I’m curious to see if you think it’s as good as the one I first made for you.”

  She tracked his approach through the faint footsteps. Her body screamed flee, run for your life! But her pride made her stay. Oh, all right, along with the aching need spreading through her core at the sight of him. She grabbed the next dish and scrubbed it furiously. Stupid hormones. To think she’d once wanted to feel such overwhelming desire for a man.

  He hopped up on the counter and sat right beside the sink. She stared at him a moment, her mouth hanging open with shock. “You’re going to get wet.”

  “Don’t care.” He held the piece of cake in his bare hand and took a delicate nibble like he was dining on the finest china. “Hmmm. I do sense something different.”

  “Cinnamon,” she retorted with enough bite that he raised his brows. “You must have heard Helga comment on it earlier.”

  “Oh, I do taste cinnamon, but there’s something else. Something…” He took another bite and swished it around in his mouth like he was a sommelier. “Sweeter.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, it could be my naughty imagination. You see, I keep having this recurring dream where I’m smearing buttercream frosting on a certain witch and licking it off her sumptuous body. I’m sure I’ve never tasted anything sweeter or better than that.”

  She slammed the pot down into the water, splashing both of them. “It’s over, Mr. Michelopoulos.” />
  He didn’t even scowl at being relegated back to formality. “Weren’t we good together?”

  “It was the magic.”

  “Oh, I see.” He nodded thoughtfully and took another bite of cake. “So why is this cake just as good as the one you used to poison me?”

  “I did not poison you.” It was hard to talk when one was gritting her teeth together to keep from punching a gorgeous Greek. “We’ve been over this. And the cake isn’t as good. It can’t be.”

  “So it won’t be as good if you kiss me?”

  Automatically, she dropped her gaze to his lips. A bit of chocolate was smeared in the corner of his mouth. While she watched, he licked it off with much enjoyment, leading her to remember his mouth between her thighs.

  “Kiss me, Clare, and find out if it’s still good. Don’t you want to know?”

  Stubbornly, she shook her head. “No, I don’t. Because I’m not going to travel to Greece with you or let you buy me some stupid restaurant in New York that I couldn’t care less about.”

  “Actually, the restaurant I just bought is in St. Paul, MN and I already gave it to someone else. Dmitri’s now the proud owner of a ma-and-pa diner in his wife’s hometown, although he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “That was nice of you.” She conceded, but refusing to take up his invitation. “So he threatened to leave you, too?”

  Yiorgos let a wry smile twist his lips. “Yes he did. The two most important people in my life suddenly found their independence and decided they didn’t need me at all.”

  She crushed the tender feelings threatening to spout in her heart. “So you bought him off?”

  Now he did scowl at her. “If I were going to buy him off, I’d give him the second best hotel in New York City. It was beyond time for me to pay him back for many years of friendship by giving him exactly what he most wanted. Now he can move his family home and make a name for himself at Dmitri’s, as you will with your restaurant.”

  “I don’t…”