Never Been Witched

by BLAIR, ANNETTE

  For insurance, she grabbed a large potted geranium off a nearby table. “Anyone hurt?” she called.

  She heard silence but for the sea sweeping the shore out back.

  As she tiptoed forward, her intruder groaned, sat up, and breached the light. A yeti, indeed, given the size of his chest and the bright of his eyes in shadow.

  Destiny lowered the clay pot and crowned him before he could strike.

  Like a tree trunk in a hurricane, he fell, taking at least one of her carts down with him. His torso lay in darkness, but she could see his hairy legs and ginormous feet in the candlelight.

  A behemoth in the flesh, moaning like he’d been shot.

  She skirted the interloper and flipped on the light.

  Curled in the fetal position, amid her clothes, both hands on his balls, he wore a purple bra like a bracelet.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Cat-scratch blood curled down his arm and dripped on his red boxers.

  “Balls . . . busted,” he gasped.

  Destiny’s fear morphed to horror. “Morgan?”

  Chapter Two

  MORGAN’S agony and rising nausea radiated through him, deepening his suffering. As he rode out the pain, he identified his assailant with a dizzying peek, then he closed his eyes to recover with shallow breaths and a soothing mantra: Dead witch. Dead witch. Dead witch.

  Not that he believed in witches, but she sure in Hades did.

  Her attack cat came over and licked his throbbing brow, meowing, or yowling, as if she were crying for him. Morgan opened his eyes and came face-to-face with the subject of all his dreams. “Nightmare,” he said.

  Kneeling beside him, Destiny looked as if she could feel his pain.

  He didn’t think so.

  He tried to sit up and groaned, but his anguish began to level off, a sign that it might recede, and he might live, in which case: Dead witch. Dead witch. Dead witch.

  “Can I help you up?” she asked.

  “Not. Quite. Ready.” Crushed cojones; that’s what he got for running and hiding.

  “I didn’t know it was you,” she said, sounding sorry, as she reached toward his brow and then stopped.

  He refused to be charmed by the regretful brat who crushed his nuts. “Why, here?” he asked and blew out a breath. “Candles? Voodoo?” Damn his lost soul, he’d come here to get away from the lust of his life—to get his house in order—and here she was, like an absolution addict sitting in his confessional. Again.

  She knelt to pick up her knife and snuff her candles. “The circle is open,” she said, scanning the room at large. “They’re gone.”

  “Who?” he asked, ignoring Chatty Kitty yowling his ear off.

  “Who, indeed?” the temptress repeated as she knelt beside him. “Caramello is talking to you. What’s with her tonight?”

  The subject of his fantasies ran paradoxically gentle fingers along his scalp, raising his testosterone level to excruciating proportions. Morgan closed his eyes in renewed anguish, yet he couldn’t ask her to stop.

  Death wish. Sex wish. There may not be any such thing as a witch, but this woman sure could cast a spell on him.

  After her sister Harmony’s wedding, he and Destiny had nearly succumbed to what he believed might be mutual lust, but they didn’t, which was just as well, since he’d known squat about making love back then.

  With her in mind, since that night, he’d read book after book about how to pleasure a woman, make himself last for her sake, doing the exercises until he could last forever. During the self-training, he’d stayed away from her, certain that by the time she got back from Scotland, he’d be able to hide his ignorance and raise her to the heights of orgasmic satisfaction.

  Instead, she’d knocked him on his ass and broken his equipment in the process. Now, she was trying to nurse him back to insanity.

  Destiny. His destiny, God help him, soothed every bruise she’d caused, except for the ones on his balls, which she didn’t touch, more’s the pity. Then again, maybe not.

  Despite that, Morgan raised a knee to hide his reaction, however weakened by her attack. Sick bastard. “Ouch, damn it! That hurts,” he snapped. “Ouch, there, too.”

  She brutalized his head, looking for and finding every bump and lump, cut, scratch, and prune. He focused on his poor, battered lap, his pecker attempting a painful call to attention.

  Damn his lost soul, only she could fix that ache. And when she did—at some indefinite date in the future—it would take as many fixes as either of them could bear, until one of them expired of bliss—him, he figured.

  Too much to hope that she might be as hot to jump his bones as he was to jump hers.

  And yet he had to get her the Hades out of there. Now. Tonight.

  “You’ll survive,” Destiny said, sitting back on her heels. “Though I’m not so sure about my things.”

  “Your things? You concussed and castrated me. I should think you’d be more worried about my . . . things!” Damn, his head hurt when he shouted.

  She knelt on her heels, full of surprise. “You gave yourself the concussion when you fell down the stairs.”

  “I fell because somebody threw a boulder at my head while I was investigating a break-in.”

  “I didn’t break in. I have a key. And all I threw was a little crystal.”

  He touched his throbbing eyebrow, and his hand came away bloody. “A crystal about the size of a fist?”

  With a look of false innocence, she picked up a crystal off the floor. “See, I told you,” she said, palm out, a speck of crystal in its center. “I couldn’t have hurt you with this.”

  Anybody who looked that innocent had to be guilty. He searched the floor around him and found a brick of a crystal on the bottom stair. He held it so close to her face, Destiny crossed her eyes to see it.

  Too bad for him, that charmed him the more.

  She pushed his hand away. “I forgive you.”

  Morgan untangled his arm from her bra. Purple and plump, it was enough to make him think about letting her stay, the sweet, seductive scamp.

  He moved the heavy metal cart handle away from the source of his pain.

  Destiny stood as if that were a sign he was ready for payback.

  The idea of strangling the object of his lust for showing up turned to a sick kind of gratitude. Books and practice were all well and good, but he’d rather claim the sex life he’d long suppressed with a flesh-and-blood woman. And here she stood, the source of his fantasies, in the beautiful, bountifully endowed flesh. “You forgive me for what?”

  “For breaking my crystal. It’s a green fluorite, which is to your benefit, by the way. They aid in cleansing the aura. Good for one as dirty as yours.”

  “Lucky me.” Was an aura like pimples? Would it clear up if he got laid?

  “Seriously,” she said. “I think the crystal you broke helped when it touched you. I already see a hint of tan with a light blue band next to it in the muddy energy around you, almost as if you’re happy about something. Your aura is a sensitive tan, bearing logic and a secret.”

  “I might once have been logical,” he said, “but when I met you, that flew out the window.”

  “I wonder why I can’t read anyone else’s aura but yours?” she mused aloud, certainly not expecting an answer from him.

  Damn, she was annoying. She had a mouth on her that could chew him up and spit him out. Yet the thought of what else she could do with it drove him crazy. Sass and all, he wanted it against his mouth, among other places.

  “Gritty Spanish stucco,” he snapped. He’d come for peace, two weeks’ worth, while she and her family were in Scotland, to avoid the torture of her constant sexual stimulation. Who needed that? Well, he did. No, maybe what he really needed was to figure out what to do about this obsession he had with a self-proclaimed witch who needed to get real. A witch, by the saints! “Why aren’t you on a plane to Scotland?”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  Morgan blew out a breath. “It’
s your nephew’s christening, not mine. They only invited me because King had no family, except me and Aiden, before you and your sisters showed up.”

  “But I’m a witch, and it’s a church christening.”

  “Because the baby’s father is Anglican,” Morgan pointed out. “Your sisters, who are also his aunts, claim they’re witches, too, but they’re in Scotland.”

  “My sisters, even the baby’s mother, respect my need for alone time. At Yule, I’ll attend little Rory’s Wiccanning with stars on.”

  “Speaking of alone time, I’d like some, thanks,” he said. “Speaking of stars, they’re floating all around you.”

  Destiny frowned and ran her hands through his hair again. “I think those stars are from the knots on your head.”

  “And my black-and-blue balls.”

  “Bruising those doesn’t cause stars.”

  “No, it causes puking, but I’m better, thanks for asking.”

  She ignored him, as he expected. “The prune on the back of your head is probably from your landing. The one on top is from the pot of geraniums I broke over it.” She winced and raised her shoulders, as if in apology.

  He touched his bloody, throbbing brow. “Damn it, I just bought those geraniums this afternoon.”

  “Positive language, please, and why are you decorating my sister’s lighthouse?”

  “My best friend owned the place before he married your sister.”

  Destiny’s huff pushed out her breasts. Nice. Morgan considered reaching for them, until she placed her hands on her hips.

  “How did you get in here?” she asked.

  Normally, when her mischievous eyes narrowed, a bright aquamarine glint filled them, but now they took on a stormy shade of green.

  On the night of Harmony and King’s wedding, when he and Destiny had kissed for the first time, and the heat of passion hit her—hit them both—he’d watched a muted gray blue roll into her eyes, like a fog, a color he’d like to see again. Fat chance.

  Morgan sighed. “King gave me a key yesterday.”

  “Wait a minute.” Destiny knelt beside him again, bringing her breasts back where he wanted them, up close and personal. “Harmony gave me a key last week, and she also gave me the distinct impression that you were going to Scotland.” Destiny gasped. “Morgan, they set us up. They knew we were both coming here.”

  His aches and pains, thankfully, kept him from expressing his true opinion. “It’d serve them right if we killed each other.”

  “It could come to that.”

  He raised a brow. “Payback’s a bitch.”

  Chapter Three

  “ONE of us could leave,” Morgan suggested, hoping she’d go, yet, true to stubborn form—his and hers—he hoped she’d refuse and stay.

  True, if she stayed, he’d go up in flames, because he’d be tinder to her fire. But, ah, what a way to go.

  She furrowed her exotic brows, more gull-winged than either of her sisters, and shook her head. “Harmony gave me a key first, so I get to stay.”

  Morgan tried to get up, using the stairs and balustrade for leverage, ignoring her helping hand, and stood bent over like an old man. “I got to the lighthouse first, so I get to stay.” Hard to be assertive when you’re staring at the floor.

  He tried to straighten, but when he teetered, Destiny slipped an arm around him. “Oh boy. Down boy.”

  She helped him sit on the stairs, whether he wanted to or not. He was grateful, though he wouldn’t admit it.

  She sat beside him, looking as if he’d sawed her flying broom in half. “I brought the family to the airport, or I’d have been here first, and a sister is closer than a best friend, so there.”

  “There? Where?”

  “Here,” she said, examining the cat scratches on his bare chest with tender, exploratory fingers and very big eyes. “I belong here,” she said, her voice suddenly scratchy.

  It occurred to him that he should feel at a disadvantage, wearing only his boxers, but she seemed more fascinated than scandalized. One of her long blonde curls fell across his shoulder, the light, intimate touch in this brazenly intimate situation nearly unmanning him, or, more accurately, manning him.

  Well, his flagpole was in good shape, hard as boss stone and ready to fly, despite any area discomfort. He swayed closer and inhaled deeply of cinnamon and sin, which had never seemed so tempting. “I’ve been vacationing here at the lighthouse since I was sixteen,” he whispered.

  “What?” she whispered, and surprised, she leaned away from him and gathered her artillery about her. “Good for you. Doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “This is a disaster,” she said. “I have plans.”

  “Propose a solution. I’m listening.”

  “There is none, except for both of us to stay,”

  Morgan shivered inwardly with dread or excitement. Who could tell? “Bad solution.”

  “There are no good solutions. Neither concussing nor castrating you worked.” She helped him to stand and walk to a hard-backed parlor chair. “I suppose drowning you is out of the question.”

  “Smart-ass.” He sat, elbows on his thighs, his head in his hands, and refused to let her see his dizzy pain and dizzier anticipation. The two of them alone together for two weeks, him with a wish-boner the whole time. He could leave when the water taxi came for him on Wednesday, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “Why are you here, anyway?” she asked, watching him with concern.

  “I’m planning to buy and renovate the place as a permanent residence, so I’m here to draw up the architectural design.” All true. Just not the entire truth.

  “Congratulations. I’ll leave when you show me the deed in your name.”

  “Damn my soul, you’re annoying.”

  “Don’t curse. Be positive. No damns allowed. Slam, if you must, but never damn.”

  Morgan stood and inched back to the stairs, waving away her help and ignoring her to preserve his sanity.

  Destiny whistled. “You know, I never took you for the type to wear red boxers.”

  “I’m in a rebellious phase.”

  “Red is rebellious?”

  “For me it is.”

  “Are they silk?” she asked with enough pointed interest to raise his, er, hackles.

  “No more than that bare-midriff Licensed to Thrill scrap you’re wearing.” A turn-me-inside-out little number that raised his hackles the more. Could her jeans be any tighter?

  She began to gather her scattered possessions and toss them into her boner-crushing cart. He tried helping her, but when she bent over, her fine ass pointed his way. Wow. His only thought was to cup her, just there, with one hand, and use the other to test the tautness of her jeans by trying to slide his eager hand inside, starting at her cowboy boots and running his itchy palm up to—he needed a word like heaven, but better.

  Paradise? Nah. The promised land. That’s what he wanted, a ticket—better yet, a free ride—to the promised land.

  Man, his boxers were about as tight as those jeans right now.

  “Hey, be careful,” she said. “You’re hurt. You’ll get blood on my clothes.”

  Morgan straightened. “You’re all heart, Kismet.”

  She scoffed. “I’m messing with your head and succeeding admirably, I see. Come into the kitchen, and I’ll patch you up.”

  Damn, or slam, his lost soul, this should be fun—like torture with perks, like her hands everywhere, except where he wanted them.

  Halfway through the parlor, her cat yowled and leaped from the top of the stairs to land on his sore shoulders.

  Morgan jumped and wrenched everything he’d already bruised. “Son of a—”

  “Sea cat?” Destiny finished. “Is my little Caramello digging in her baby claws?”

  Morgan realized that this new attempt to annoy him amused him. “Not anymore.” The aptly named caramel-and-marshmallow-colored kitten was in the process of settling around his neck
, front and back paws hanging down his chest from either side of his head, a bit like his grandmother’s old fox stole. Now the soft thing whispered meows in his ear and licked his lobe, like they were old friends sharing a secret.

  “Leave her,” Morgan said, no longer caring whether he could get Caramello, the feline catapult, for assault and battery, because he was paradoxically pleased to be her confidant. The triplets’ cats shared discourse with their respective triplet and no one else. Destiny, he could see, was miffed by her cat’s desertion, which made Caramello’s attention half honor, half payback.

  The cat continued to grace his neck while Morgan wet a towel with cold tap water, held it to the bloody gash on his brow, and leaned against the copper kitchen sink so he wouldn’t slide to the floor and make an ass of himself in view of Caramello’s owner.

  Trying to focus on anything but his pain, he eyed the bulging brown paper grocery bags on the counter. “You brought enough food for a week.”

  “Two weeks,” Destiny corrected.

  His destiny, he asked himself again, as in a form of celestial retribution for his defection? He could be in for two weeks with a seducer-type torture device who called herself a witch? Some punishment. The best he could work up was a raging round of happy, so much of it, that he saw stars again and had to grab the counter for support. He needed a shrink. And a drink. Whiskey, maybe a bottle or two.

  “Whoa.” Destiny caught him and walked him back to the living room, because the bare kitchen held no furniture beyond the fridge that came over on the ark and the stove from Little House on the Prairie. “Sit,” she ordered.

  Okay, so he’d gotten knocked around a bit. Morgan saluted and slid into the chair, only to have her cat jump into his lap, yowl for his attention, and pat his cheek with a paw.

  The cat distraction didn’t work. He watched the sway of Destiny’s backside instead, until she disappeared into the kitchen. He picked up the cat for a face-to-face. “First thing I’m gonna do after I buy the place,” he whispered, “is enlarge it and take down the wall between the kitchen and living room so when Destiny walks through the house, I can watch her ass from wherever I am.”