"It'll just take a minute—"
"No!” he flatly insisted. Catching himself, he smiled again and added, “But thank you."
"I assure you, unless you're a Halestrom, you can safely drink my tea.” She winked, flashed a cheeky grin, and watched his face redden.
"Fact of the matter is, Miss Honeywell, I don't know much about my family tree.” His smile was nervous around the edges, but still polite. “I'm not sure I'd want to take my chances.” He managed a chuckle meant to convince Bianca he was half-joking, but she sensed his fear. “No hard feelings?"
"None.” She extended a hand.
He hesitated a moment, watching her gesture as if he expected her to fire darts of blue electricity from her fingertips. Then, with an apprehensive snicker, he clasped her hand.
It wouldn't take much to incite a reaction from him and Bianca was a witch with a sense of humor. He nearly peed his pants when sparks crackled and smoke puffed from their handshake. He yanked his hand back, staring at his palm as if he expected it to burst into flame.
"You're crazy!"
"Oh, lighten up,” she hollered as he raced to the delivery truck. He hoisted his beefy body into the driver's seat, jerked the truck into gear, and sped down her driveway, never once looking back.
* * * *
"You really need to control your temper,” Miles Frank pleasantly cajoled Bianca, as he sipped tea from a tall glass filled with ice cubes that barely withstood the heat wave.
"It wasn't temper. It was just my sense of humor.” Bianca huffed an irritated breath and slumped into the chair across the dinette from him. She arched a brow. “You're not afraid to drink my tea."
"That's because there's not a chance in hell that I'll fall in love with you,” he reminded her, making kissy lips then setting his glass down. “You're not my type."
"You would've enjoyed the delivery men this afternoon,” she teased him. “They were certainly your type. And mine.” She scowled. “I need to find myself a sexy dimwit who's never heard of the Honeywell curse."
He laughed shrilly. “Fat chance. At least around here.” Squeezing the lemon wedge in his glass, he added, “Besides, you're too smart to settle for a dimwit, darling.” Miles fanned himself with a napkin. “Can we get some air in here?"
With a flick of her wrist, the fan on her kitchen counter came on and began oscillating, moving a cool breeze around the room. Bianca gulped orange-flavored tea and grinned over the rim of her glass.
"I hate you, you know,” he joked, ebony brows curved over dark eyes.
"You have other gifts,” she reminded him with a kind and patient smile. Lowering her gaze, she sullenly confessed, “And, trust me, being a genetic witch has its drawbacks."
"Like men-killing curses?"
"Precisely."
She brushed fingers through her short, choppy hairstyle and gave him a fond smile. She loved Miles Frank. One of her dearest friends, he saw past the curses and spells and charmed the woman inside. Most important, he was safe from the Honeywell hex. He wasn't a Halestrom descendent. And Miles didn't prefer girls.
"How did your love spell work?” she finally queried, after days of subduing her curiosity.
He rolled his eyes. “Don't ask."
Her heart sank for him. “He's still leaving for New York?"
"Apparently I'm not worth his turning down a bit part in an off-Broadway play,” Miles groaned, his handsome face drooping slightly. “Off-off-Broadway, even. Off-off-off-Broadway.” He sighed dramatically. “To hell with him."
"To hell with him,” she agreed, raising her glass. They clanked in a toast, laughing as Bianca added, “Men stink."
"I'm right up there with you, B.” He drained his glass of tea then shoved himself up from the table. “I gotta scoot."
"But the social's starting in an hour,” she objected, rising and laying a hand on his forearm. “I need you here."
"I'll be back,” he promised, kissing her cheek. “Just have a few errands to run, that's all."
"All right then.” She followed him to the door. “Try not to be too late. And don't forget to bring your sister."
He moaned, rolling his eyes. “Do I have to?"
Bianca laughed, knowing full well that whether he was joking or serious was a fifty-fifty shot.
Miles and his twin sister Fallon had the typical love-hate relationship most siblings shared. Having grown up an only child, it had taken Bianca years of getting to know Miles and Fallon before she understood that, deep down, they shared a tremendous love for each other. No matter how rigorously they tormented one another.
Laughing with her, Miles tugged open the aged front door, swollen from the humidity. “You know she wouldn't miss it for the world.” He stepped onto the porch as a motorcycle pulled up the driveway to the house.
"Looks like you have a customer,” Miles murmured. With a telltale hum in his tone, he added, “Not bad looking, either. Hmm. Men on bikes are too good to pass up."
"Miles, hitting on the customers isn't allowed, remember?"
"Let me read his palm."
"You don't know how."
"So what? He doesn't know that."
With an amused grin, she shoved playfully. “Didn't you have errands to run? Go."
"They can wait—"
Laughing, she pushed against his back, urging him down the steps.
"You're a testy little witch, you know that?” he playfully harassed her, letting Bianca steer him toward his red Corvette. “You're lucky I can see past all of that."
"Yes. I'm so lucky. Good-bye.” She kissed him lightly, brotherly, on the mouth, then coaxed him into his car. “See you in a bit."
Miles arched his neck to watch the man climb off his bike. He winked at Bianca. “This could be your sexy dimwit."
"Oh, stop it already.” She shut his door abruptly, but not without an appreciative chuckle for her friend's wit. Waving, he drove away in a cloud of dust.
Bianca smoothed her Aztec-patterned sundress and turned back to the house where the stranger stood at the porch, watching her walk toward him, with a steady, unwavering gaze.
He had rather longish dark hair, slicked back from his face probably from sweat, humidity and his motorcycle helmet, and dusky, penetrating eyes. A fair amount of five o'clock shadow dusted his masculine squared jaw. His mouth, a little crooked, was pulled into a thin line of skepticism, almost a smirk. Tall and nicely built, his strong physique seemed poured into denim and a plain navy T-shirt, topped by a black leather jacket that just screamed bad boy. He stood arrow-straight, thumbs hooked into his front pockets, and watched her approach.
She felt suddenly self-conscious under the scrutiny of his gaze and her stomach quivered. As she neared, Bianca thought he seemed oddly familiar, though she couldn't place him. He wasn't from around here. Clover Falls had a population of about two thousand, even on a busy day. Everyone knew everyone. He had to be a stranger in these parts—no way would she ever have laid eyes on this man before and failed to remember him.
"Hello,” she greeted with a broad smile. “Are you here for a reading?"
He hesitated, his brows furrowed. Then his eyes found the small wooden sign dangling from her porch rail:
Bianca Honeywell
Herbals, Holistic Remedies and Readings
He shook his head decisively. “No. I'm here for the ice cream.” He glanced around. “I must be early."
"It starts in about an hour.” She stood a couple of feet away from him, watching his eyes narrow then settle on her face. A thrill of anticipation—or maybe it was awareness—shot up her spine. “Do I know you?” she inquired softly.
He shook his head, his lopsided smirk enhancing a bit. “I don't think so."
"I'm Bianca Honeywell."
He stared at her extended hand, but made no move to shake it. “I'm Luke."
Her cheeks warmed at the rebuff and she drew her hand back, then set it on her hip. “Do you have a last name, Luke?"
"Jones,” he replied, j
ust a little too quickly. “Luke Jones."
He was lying. She had a sense about these things. But she shrugged and played along. No skin off her nose. “Okay, Luke Jones. Would you like to rest in the shade of the porch until the ice cream is served?"
"I'm interested in the history of this place, Ms. Honeywell—"
"It's Miss. Miss Honeywell. But everyone calls me Bianca."
His eyes glinted just a bit. “Very well ... Bianca. Do you suppose I could have a quick look around?"
She took a long moment to assess him. He wasn't telling the truth about his name, she sensed that, but what difference did it make? Perhaps he was just another curiosity seeker, fascinated by the Honeywell curse. He couldn't be a Halestrom, that was for sure, otherwise he wouldn't be standing on her porch right this moment. The curse was taken seriously by everyone with any knowledge of it.
She smiled at him again. “Sure. Come on in."
Bianca walked up the porch steps. Curious by nature, she had a million questions bumbling through her head about this guy already. For instance, why did she feel as if she knew him and why would he lie about his name? Why the intense stare? The cool tone? The aversion to handshakes?
"How old is this house?” He followed her, the worn steps creaking beneath his booted feet.
"It was built in 1880 by my great-great-grandmother.” She laughed and tossed a wink over her shoulder. “Well, she had a little help."
"Hmmph,” was all he replied in an almost reluctant half-chuckle.
Bianca tugged open the screen door. “It's practically a landmark."
"Practically?"
She smiled. “We're working on getting it listed on the Historic Register."
"Two story,” he noted. “With a cellar?"
Bianca nodded, amused by the unusual question. “An attic and a cellar."
He followed her inside. “How much property?"
"Property?"
"Land."
"Ten acres.” She peered at him. “You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Jones. Are you looking for something in particular?"
His face was somber. “Just ice cream."
"Just ice cream,” she repeated dubiously. “Okay. Whatever.” She shrugged, then waved a hand. “This is the den."
It was a little dark and dusty, but her favorite room nonetheless. Bookshelves, well stocked with pages and pages of history, drama, spells and magic, lined the walls. She spent hours each week perusing the Honeywell library of knowledge. She'd read everything, twice already, but was still fascinated by every page.
Beneath the window facing the driveway was the table where she conducted most of her business. Scrying from a crystal ball. Palm and Tarot card readings. Where she saw past, present and future.
Seeing was one of her gifts, passed down from her mother, and hers before, and so on. Honeywell women, for ages, had made a pretty penny by looking into the past, present, or future of those willing to know. And willing to pay for that knowledge.
Pressed herbs in frames covered the walls where ancestral pictures were not. The floral-printed wallpaper was faded and worn away in some areas, but it was the original covering her great-great-grandmother had chosen when the house was built. Bianca couldn't imagine replacing it.
As Luke gazed in at the room, he flapped the opening of his black leather jacket as if to create a bit of cooling breeze. “You look warm. And uncomfortable.” When he gave her a sharp look, she surveyed him with a steady gaze. “Would you like some iced tea?"
Luke averted his eyes. “Water would be nice."
He followed her to the kitchen, took the glass from her hand and filled it for himself. He drank it dry in seconds, then refilled it.
She watched him, puzzled, her interest growing, burning inside of her. In a little under five minutes she had become intrigued by this man to the point that nearly bordered on obsession.
"What do you do, Mr. Jones?” She cocked her head to one side, studied his handsome face, and watched for a flicker of anything that might give him away.
"I write. And it's Luke.” No emotion. Nothing. The man was void of any telltale expression. “What do you do, Miss Honeywell?"
"Bianca,” she corrected. What she did was no secret, not in the small town of Clover Falls. Besides, he'd read her sign out front. Still, she favored him with a reply. “I tell fortunes and sell herbal and holistic remedies."
That elicited a reaction. He looked away, his mouth twitching against a derisive smirk.
She bristled. “Let's be straight here, Mr.—Luke. You're obviously looking for something."
"I said I came for the ice cream.” Stony eyes met hers and her breath caught.
"But you're not being completely honest,” she decided, crossing her arms over her chest.
"What makes you say that?” A flicker of interest lit in his eyes.
"I know things, Luke. Perhaps you've never heard of me, but I'm—"
"A Honeywell. Yes, I know who—what—you are.” His jaw stiffened and his honey-brown eyes narrowed.
Bianca felt her gut twist sharply, the bite of anger sliding up her throat. “What I am?” she repeated.
"People say you're a—a—” He gulped his second glass of water.
"A witch?” she supplied, both brows arched.
Luke shoved the empty glass toward her. When she took it, he stuffed a hand into his pocket, gesturing with the other in a dismissive wave. “I've heard the story. The magic. The curse. The whole fairytale."
His free hand dove into his pocket and he shrugged. “I just came here to see it for myself.” He hesitated, then added, “And for the ice cream."
She gaped at him. “Fairytale?"
He nodded. “Not everyone buys into the lore, Bianca."
She fought back the urge to show him exactly what he was missing out on. With a flick of her hand, she could've sent a bolt of lightening through the room. Or conjured a talking parrot on his shoulder. Even plopped him right back onto his fancy motorcycle, not knowing just quite how he'd arrived there.
But she didn't. Magic by means of anger was what had fueled the Honeywell curse to begin with.
It mattered not to her whether this “Luke Jones” believed she was a witch. She couldn't care less if he didn't think magic—true magic—existed. Half of Clover Falls believed, while the other half never would anyway. It was so much easier to speculate, gossip, and live in fear of the unknown. Nothing had changed much since Celia Honeywell's Colonial days.
It was the “what we don't know won't hurt us” mentality that she despised, but also found solace in. Not believing often meant not fearing. She'd rather be scoffed at than feared. Fear often led to hatred, and hatred led to...
"If you've come for ice cream, then that's just what you'll get.” Her tone was tense with the effort to sound bright and cheerful. “Feel free to roam around outside. The gardens are beautiful and we're expecting a breeze by the end of the afternoon to cool things down a bit."
"A breeze?” he repeated, something distant and troubled darkening his eyes again.
"Yes. A breeze. Would that be okay with you?” She gave him a deadpan stare, watched him shift his weight, then run a hand through his hair.
He moseyed to the kitchen door, tugging it open. From there, he inspected the outdoors, where tables, chairs, and July Fourth decorations made the garden festive for the occasion.
"A breeze would definitely be nice,” he murmured.
With a wicked smile, Bianca innocently replied, “Good. Let's see if we can rustle one up for you then."
Chapter Two
Luke was accustomed to blending in. It was, oftentimes, a requirement as an investigative reporter. The art of camouflage wasn't easy to master, but Luke had it finessed.
Besides, at least at Bianca's ice cream social, it wasn't hard to blend in, even in his tough-guy motorcycle gear. It seemed half the town of Clover Falls was milling about the place. Even the mayor, a rotund balding man named Bob Goode, had come along with his wife and their gr
andchildren.
Bianca's picturesque Victorian home was set in a scenic landscape that was well kept, lush, and like something out of any popular home and garden magazine. Bougainvillea, brightly flowered and bushy, climbed fences and walls, attracting the attention of thirsty hummingbirds and bees. Rose bushes, hearty with full blooms of vibrant colors ranging from deep lavender to vivid yellow, ruby red to snow white, were fragrant, almost intoxicating, and plentiful.
The rolling gardens ambled in unorganized fashion, pleasing to the eye. Flowers and herbs were scattered amongst lofty oak, willow and pine trees, and decorated hilly clusters of thick grass. Eye-catching dry river rock beds wove through quaint little white-picket-fence-enclosed raised bed vegetable gardens. Trellises adorned with vines of emerald green, speckled with tiny white or pink flowers, were randomly placed as shady nooks. Fairy and elf statuettes aimlessly popped up here and there, amidst tufts of herbs and flowers. A small frog pond, complete with lily pads, drank the peaceful trickle that passed through a big overturned wooden barrel.
Keeper of nature's artistry, Bianca Honeywell flitted about, dishing up ice cream and toppings, visiting with townsfolk, and being an exceptional hostess. The word flitted came to mind because there was no other way to describe how she moved. Attach a set of wings to her and she could pass herself off for an enchanting little nymph, if one believed in those sorts of things. Luke didn't.
But, if he did, he'd have to admit she looked like one, too. Perhaps most men didn't care for short hair on women, but Luke wasn't one of them. He'd decided her short, choppy cut, with its hues of brown and red, lending itself to no true identifiable shade was, actually, sexy. Quite sexy.
The hairstyle did a great job of showing off her eyes, green as polished jade, and with a personality all their own. But it was her incredible smile, framed by full pink lips, which could've charmed honey from the bees.
Not that he'd been taking notes or anything. He just ... well ... noticed things. It was his job, after all, to be observant. A woman like Bianca Honeywell made his job really, really easy.
Bewitching the Bachelor Page 2