Bewitching the Bachelor

by Suzanne Marie Calvin

  However, he hadn't come to enjoy Bianca's physical attributes, as worthy of enjoyment as they were. Luke was there for the real story on Celia's curse and he had a deadline to meet. Ogling the indirect subject of his article was a waste of time and resources.

  Luke was clue shopping. Watchful of everything Bianca did. Noticing how she affected those around her. So far it wasn't clear to him whether anyone believed Bianca was—if fairytales were real—a witch. No one treated her as if she were different. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just people eating ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream.

  What did he expect, anyway? That she would wiggle her nose and make the frozen dessert dance out of the bowls? Or hop on a broomstick and circle above the crowd just for amusement? It was silly, really. He didn't buy into this flight of fancy. Witches, magic, curses—it was all a lot of baloney.

  Luke sighed, exasperated. The only noteworthy “magic” thus far was how clingy her sundress was and the way her hips sashayed when she flitted. More of a gift to the eye than magic, really.

  Sullenly, he spooned ice cream into a dish, doused it with chocolate sauce, threw in a handful of chopped nuts, then added a mountain of whipped cream. It would be a sin if all he walked away with at the end of the night was the need for an antacid.

  "How about a cherry?"

  He jumped at the sound of her voice. Twisting around, Luke discovered Bianca, a naughty gleam in her eyes, dangling a maraschino cherry from her fingertips.

  Something he chose to ignore rustled just below his belt buckle. “No thanks."

  Without another word she popped the cherry into her mouth, chewed slowly, and his body temperature shot up about twenty degrees.

  "Nice party,” he commented, licking his spoon, giving her a bold once-over that should have made her blush, but didn't. At least not that he could tell.

  Petite, she probably stood a good foot shorter than he, but there was a lot of energy wrapped up in that slight, slender body of hers. Not to mention sex appeal. Slight and slender didn't exactly mean void of curves, of course—and she had them in spades.

  She surveyed him, taking inventory in the same indiscreet manner Luke had with her. Something hot and unexpected sliced clear through his gut. The game they were playing was ... dangerous.

  With a bewitching smile, she almost moaned. “Mmm ... Just wait until the fireworks."

  His ice cream went down his throat in one painful, frozen lump.

  Luke had the uncanny sensation that everything that came out of her mouth had an innuendo attached. She shifted between sweet and sexy as if she couldn't make up her mind ... or enjoyed both too much to sacrifice one for the other.

  Luke spooned more ice cream into his mouth, hoping it would quell the burn in his gut. Who was he kidding? He'd have to jump into a huge vat of the stuff. She had his interest aroused, all right. Being a man wasn't always easy, and women like Bianca seemed to know that the male libido had a mind of its own.

  "Have you met the mayor?” she asked, switching gears so fast it made his head spin.

  He nodded slowly, tapping into his resources, mustering smooth nonchalance. “The mayor, the preacher, the sheriff, and a very talkative woman named Abigail O'Grady."

  She laughed, the sound like music to his ears. It was a nutty, stupid cliche, describing laughter that way, but what sang past Bianca's throat certainly fit the description.

  "Abigail is the town historian.” Arching a brow, amusement shone in her eyes. “Did she tell you that, too?"

  Disappointed, he shook his head. “All she talked about was her poodle Lulu.” The woman had chewed up twenty minutes over that stupid dog. Luke knew what the dog weighed, ate, when it slept, and how many tricks it could do. If only he'd known, in that questionably pea-sized brain of hers, that there was a wealth of historical knowledge about Clover Falls, he could've picked up some tidbits for his article.

  He'd have to make friends with Abigail O'Grady. And her stupid poodle, too.

  "If you want to know about the Honeywell curse,” Bianca said as off-handedly as if she were talking about the weather, which, as she'd promised earlier, had grown breezy, “Abigail O'Grady could fill in some holes for you. Pick up a chew toy from the pet shop and pay her a visit. Win Lulu over and Abigail will be putty in your hands.” With a wink and an enchanting grin, she added, “At least that's what the rumors say."

  Well. Bianca had damned near read his mind. Pondering that, he spooned another bite of ice cream into his mouth.

  "Bianca, baby, I've been looking all over for you.” The man Luke had seen earlier leaving Bianca's place approached, dropping an arm around her shoulders. Fixing a dark-eyed gaze on Luke, he extended a hand. “Miles Frank. New in town?"

  "Just visiting.” Luke dropped the spoon into his bowl, shook Miles’ hand, and stammered, “Luke—Jones. Luke Jones."

  A wry smirk tweaked Bianca's sexy full-lipped mouth and she looked away. He studied her a moment, curious about her expression.

  Miles chattered, “Hello, Luke Jones. Nice bike."

  "Thanks.” Luke made tracks in his ice cream with his spoon, one eye watching the exchange between Miles and Bianca.

  "B, the natives are getting restless. Tell me you have more ice cream."

  "In the cellar freezer,” she answered him, then to Luke, “If you'll excuse me—"

  Miles laid a hand on her arm. “Don't move. I've got it. No problem.” With a little wave toward Luke, he added, “Keep visiting. Everything's under control.” He turned, heading for the house.

  Luke watched Miles bounce up the steps, then disappear inside, in a blur of stonewashed denim and a burnt orange polo shirt. “Colorful character."

  "He'd appreciate that.” Arms folded over her chest, she summed him up with a steady gaze. “What do you write, Luke?"

  He went against his powerful instinct to avert his eyes and risked being charmed by hers. “Articles."

  "Articles for...?"

  "A magazine."

  "Which one?"

  "Nothing you've heard of."

  "You'd be surprised.” Her grin was an intriguing blend of curiosity and amusement. “I actually do read. Occasionally."

  His grin was sincere. “I don't doubt it."

  "You still haven't answered me."

  "I forgot the question,” he lied.

  For one long silent moment, Bianca studied him, sinking her teeth into her lush bottom lip, keen interest gleaming in her eyes. “My, but you're evasive."

  "Thank you.” For good measure, he spooned a semi-frozen clump of fudge sauce into his mouth.

  She dipped her chin, watching him from beneath two chestnut-hued eyebrows. “You're welcome."

  He flashed a closed-lipped smile, knowing that, at some point, she'd become sufficiently irritated enough to stop probing. Most reporters didn't like being in the hot seat and Luke was one of them.

  Swallowing the clump of fudge sauce, he cleared his throat, then ventured, “Tell me, Bianca, does everyone here know your little secret?"

  Her laugh was laced with amused annoyance, but she feigned nonchalance quite well. “That's a loaded question, Luke. I'm not sure what little secret you're referring to."

  "Pick one."

  "Now, that wouldn't be very smart of me, would it?"

  "Okay.” He shrugged. “I'll pick one. Do they think you're a witch?"

  The fact that his direct question didn't rile her was a bit disappointing.

  "I'm not sure what everyone here thinks.” She glanced around, then set a narrowed gaze on him. “What do you think?"

  "You already know what I think."

  "Not about whether or not I'm a witch. What do you think they think?"

  "I haven't figured it out yet.” Luke crammed his spoon into the unfinished dessert, then set it on a table behind him. “But I will. People like to talk and I like to listen.” He sighed, stretched languorously and stuffed his hands into his back pockets. “It's nice here. I think I'll hang around town a few days. Ask ques
tions. Get answers.” He winked and flashed his most beguiling smile. “You know, poke around for the facts."

  Unwavering, she squared her shoulders and appeared confident. “Well, please let me know what you find out. I'll be waiting on the edge of my seat."

  Luke ran a hand through his hair, then stuffed it back into his pocket. He looked around, surveying the happy faces, the socializing, the eating, the festive decorations, all of it. It was a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. Then he fixed a cynical stare on Bianca. “Do you do it because you enjoy it?"

  Having followed his gaze, she evenly responded, “I do it because it's been an annual event for the past fifty-some-odd years. People come here for ice cream every July fourth."

  He rolled his eyes. “I'm not talking about the ice cream."

  She angled her head to one side. “Then what?"

  No longer in the mood for games or playful banter, Luke's exasperation tore through his facade of control. “Telling people you're a witch! Is it fun? Do you get some sort of charge out of it?"

  If he wasn't a logical man, Luke might have admitted to seeing sparks crackle, like tiny gold flecks, in her green eyes. He blinked, looked again, and saw nothing but her frustration.

  "Do I get a charge out of it?” she repeated in a slightly shaky tone. One brow spiked over those gleaming eyes. “Do you?"

  When he leaned back against the table, a snap of electricity stabbed his bottom and then shot through him like a lightening bolt. Alarmed, he jerked upright. Rubbing the left side of his duff, he muttered, “Damned static electri—"

  She interrupted, her tone as biting as the shock he'd just suffered. “For a reporter, you're not a very smart man, are you?” Her words were cold and a chill tumbled down his spine. Already in mid-turn, she snapped, “I'd better help Miles."

  Bianca left him then and Luke watched her stomp toward the house. Once she went inside, he released the breath he'd been holding, then ran shaky hands through his hair.

  "You must have said something pretty bad."

  A young woman slinked up beside him. Clad in all-black blouse, jeans and boots, her whole appearance was dark and brooding. Her hair was dyed charcoal black. Sleek ebony polish shimmered on her nails and a number of earrings outlined the curve of each ear. Snatching his hand, she shook it vigorously. “Fallon Frank."

  He eyed the thorny rose-vine tattoo on her wrist. “Luke Jones. Any relation to Miles?"

  Blood red lips framed perfect white teeth in a smile that might have been attractive, if this gothic-type woman wasn't just a little scary. “My twin brother. It figures he would've made sure he met you before the night was over."

  "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

  She laughed. “You will."

  "Fallon ... Now that's an interesting name."

  "Actually it's Rebecca. Fallon is my Wiccan name."

  "Ah.” The sound was almost a chuckle. “So you're a witch, too, is that it?” Was there a bandwagon he'd missed?

  She nodded, continuing as casually as if he'd asked what she did for a living. “By choice. Bianca's one by blood. There's a difference."

  "Really?” Sure, he'd bite. He was, after all, looking for a story. This Fallon certainly seemed eager to talk.

  "Yes. Really.” She met his gaze with a deadpan onyx-eyed stare. “Wicca isn't just about magic and spells. And it's not only something you are, it's something you live. What Bianca is, she would be whether she practiced Wicca or not. There's no choice involved when it's in your blood. It just is.” Meeting his bewildered gaze with a sly smile, she added, “Like your light-brown eyes. You inherited them from someone, right?"

  "My mom.” He shrugged, looking away. “So I'm supposed to believe there's some kind of witch gene?"

  She laughed, almost a giggle. “You can believe what you want, Luke Jones. But whether you believe it or not won't change what is.” With a thoughtful smile, she surveyed his expression, then centered her dark eyes on his. “You seem like an intelligent man. I'm sure you already know there's lots of phenomena out there that science can't explain."

  "But genetic witches?” He tilted a skeptical brow. “That's way out there."

  Shrugging, she tossed her head to one side. “Whatever.” Off-handedly, but with a slight edge of humor in her tone, she ventured, “So what did you say to piss off Bianca?"

  "I have no idea."

  "I hope you figure it out before you do it again. She's turned men into frogs for lesser offenses."

  He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Give me a break."

  A jet-black brow shot up. “Not a buyer?"

  "Not if you're selling crazy."

  Her laugh was a deep, rolling sound that made him think of dark, damp places he'd never want to visit alone. “I hope you stick around, Luke Jones. This should be fun to watch."

  He had a feeling she wasn't talking about the fireworks.

  "You've known Bianca a long time?” He managed to sound casual.

  "Oh, yes. Centuries.” She gave him a mysterious sideways glance. “But I'll bet you don't believe in past lives either."

  "You'd win that bet.” Okay, Goth Girl here was a bona fide wacko, he decided. In desperation he looked around for someone normal to talk to.

  "You should let Bianca read your palm sometime. She might change your mind."

  "I doubt it.” He ran that palm through his hair again. “Listen, it's been great chatting, but I'm going to move on."

  "I didn't mean to scare you off.” Her mischievous grin told him she was enjoying every bit of his discomfort.

  "You didn't. I—"

  "You reporter types usually eat this stuff up.” She tapped a black fingernail to her chin. “What gives?"

  With a grim stare, he dully stated, “I came for the truth."

  She shrugged, stuffing a brittle, over-dyed lock of hair behind her ear. “Now there's a twist. Be careful what you ask for, Mr. Luke Jones, because you just might get it."

  * * * *

  The frustrated sound Bianca made was somewhere between a groan and a scream. Her anger sent a blast of invisible electricity through the air.

  "Ouch!” Miles cried out. He knocked his head on the freezer door. “Damn it, Bianca, would you knock it off?"

  "Sorry."

  "I love you. But I'm tired of feeling like I just walked across the carpet in socks then touched a metal cabinet every time you get pissed off.” Toting two five-gallon buckets of ice cream, he warned, “You really need to control that."

  "I know,” she glumly acquiesced, stroking hands through her hair, as if to rub away her aggravation. “It's that Luke Jones.” She waved a hand, feeling hot and irritable. “Or whatever his real name is. Isn't the curse old news yet?"

  "Not as long as Halestrom men are still dropping dead, B."

  "Celia's story has been done to death. We haven't seen a reporter in a year or two. So why's he coming around?"

  Miles shrugged. “Who knows? But you can get rid of him, if you want to."

  "I've told you this a thousand times,” she grated in a testy tone. “I don't do banishing spells, because it isn't right to take someone's free will."

  He waved a hand. “Free will. Harm none. It's all pretty gray, isn't it?” He winked, evidence that he was teasing.

  Bianca crinkled her nose at him. “You know better than that.” Folding her arms, she tapped her foot impatiently. “There's something familiar about him and it's bugging me. I have this feeling I know him. Or that I should know him."

  "Probably one of those past life things,” Miles called over his shoulder, as he took the ice cream up the cellar stairs. “Listen, I'd love to chat, but there are some hungry people waiting for rocky road and mint chip. Let's pick this up later, okay?"

  Her heart sank as the door at the top of the stairway shut, leaving Bianca alone with her frustration. She was tempted to hide out in the cellar for the remainder of the evening. The last thing she needed was another zealous reporter poking his nose into her life. But she c
ouldn't. With a dogged sigh, she took the stairs two at a time. It was, after all, her party.

  But the next button Luke Jones deliberately pushed would find him croaking on a lilypad and slurping mosquitoes in her pond.

  Chapter Three

  The sun ducked behind tree-covered hills, leaving a sky painted in bold hues of red and orange. That portrait, in turn, slowly gave way to a starry backdrop, shared by a moon nearly three-quarters full. When darkness had well and truly fallen, then—and only then—did the Clover Falls Parks and Recreation Department begin the annual fireworks display.

  Bianca's guests watched from the garden, sprawled out on blankets and beach towels. Gleeful squeals from excited children followed each blast of color and light, as little ones jumped up and down, covering their ears. Couples snuggled close. Exclamations of oohh and aahh hung in the air between colorful explosions in the inky night sky.

  Luke watched from the porch, leaning up against the rail, feeling festive and content, in spite of everything else. Nothing like fireworks to bring out the kid in even the worst cynic.

  A woman brushed past him with a fretting baby. Looking flustered, she muttered something about needing a quiet place to nurse the child. Luke tugged open the screen door and she thanked him, then ducked into Bianca's house.

  Smiling to himself, he shut the door behind her, then turned back to enjoy the fireworks. Some of the children ran circles around the yard, carrying sparklers in their hands.

  "Look! It's like fairy magic!” one little girl called to Luke, as she flounced past the porch in a pink-flowered sundress. Matching ribbons hung from blonde curls that were in disarray. In the dim porch light, Luke could see that her chocolate-ice-cream-coated grin was missing a front tooth.

  "You're right, Shelby! Those sparklers are just like fairy magic!” Bianca called out suddenly from right beside him and Luke realized the child hadn't been talking to him at all.

  Shelby giggled and went back to chasing circles around the boys, her sparkler still flickering bright.

  Before Luke had a chance to wonder how long Bianca had been standing next to him on the porch, she quietly said, “I want to apologize for ... earlier."

  He shook his head. “No need to apologize. I'm a reporter. That gives me license to generally piss people off."