"Then,” she began decisively, shoving up from the table, “come to my office tomorrow. You can look through my books.” She took their empty glasses, turned toward the sink, and added cryptically, “If you really want the truth."
"Fine. I'll come by tomorrow.” He jerked to his feet. Lulu growled quietly, snapped at the toe of his boot, and then pranced over to Abigail, who scooped her up.
"I'll be downtown by nine,” she told him.
"Good.” He nodded once. “We'll see then about all of this witch insanity."
Laughing good-naturedly, she followed him out. “Okay, Mr. Luke Jones. We'll see then."
"You're a smart woman, Abigail,” he told her pleasantly. “You know as well as I do that witches aren't real.” He moseyed through her den, swung open the screen door, then stood on the porch as she followed.
"I've lived a long life, dear.” She peered at him. “My guess is that I've got at least thirty years on you. In that time, I've seen a lot of things I never thought I would. I don't second-guess the impossible anymore."
"Well, Abigail, second-guessing the impossible is what I do for a living.” He crammed his hands into his front pockets and ambled down the porch steps.
She laughed again. “After this, you might find yourself looking for another job."
His gaze narrowed, but he managed a polite smile. “I doubt that.” He swung a leg over his bike then tugged on his helmet.
"Celia Honeywell was a witch,” she called out to him. “It was in her blood. Something like that doesn't skip a generation."
"Would it show up in a DNA test?” he quipped, tongue in cheek.
Abigail shook her head, still smiling. But then something dark and mysterious slipped over her eyes, and her mouth curled into a tight, amused smirk. “My, but you have a lot to learn, young man. This will be a ride you won't soon forget."
* * * *
Bianca was trimming back the bougainvillea when he pulled up, the deep rumble of his motorcycle preceding his arrival. She didn't turn to watch him climb off of his bike or to afford him a greeting. Instead she decided to ignore him entirely.
Wiping her moist brow with the back of a gloved hand, she hummed an unidentifiable little ditty. Swatting the occasional wasp or hornet, Bianca wished she hadn't procrastinated with her gardening. Typically she kept a handy little “to do” list. Maintaining the grounds was at the top of that list. With the Fourth of July holiday, the week had gotten away from her.
"Good afternoon, Bianca.” His deep, smooth—and, yes, sexy—voice instantly sent tiny tremors skimming up and down her spine. It made her angry. Not the voice. Her reaction to it.
"Hello.” She gave an aggressive snip to one thorny branch. “You sure disappeared quickly last night."
"Sorry about that."
"No you're not."
She heard him sigh, but kept her back to him. There was something about his eyes that kept throwing her rhythm off. They were the color of dark honey that grew duskier when he was irritated. Or being smug—which, she'd decided, he was very good at and did often. Nevertheless she didn't need those eyes of his diminishing the fact that she was annoyed with him.
In a calm tone, he replied, “You were ... busy."
"Oh, please. You could have waited. Did you have your ribs checked?"
He hesitated. She kept cutting at the bushes, knowing his answer already. And that she'd been right. Finally he sighed again. “They're fine. Just bruised."
"Told you."
"Okay, okay,” he groused. “You told me. Fine. You were right. Lucky guess."
"Do you want to hear something funny, Luke? I manage a lot of lucky guesses in an average day.” She stopped trimming and pivoted to face him. With the cutters in one hand, she flicked the brim of her straw hat up a notch, arching a brow. “How's this for a lucky guess..."
Those fascinating eyes of his widened in anticipation. She sucked in a breath.
Cursing her eager libido, she cleared her throat, managing to declare, with confidence, “Your name's not Luke Jones. Luke, yes. Jones, no. Lucky guess?” She held his eyes with her own, even if doing so made her insides feel like gelatin.
His shrug was nonchalant, but the clench in his jaw gave him away. “Maybe."
She rolled her eyes, a groan of exasperation scraping past her throat.
"Look, can we talk?” He angled his head toward the house.
"We are talking."
"I mean ... not here.” He looked pointedly at the blades in her hand. “And not with you toting a sharp-edged weapon."
"I can't stop what I'm doing.” She turned back to clipping and snapped another branch.
"I can wait."
"It'll be a while."
"Fine."
"Hours, maybe."
His tone reflected humor, but what he said sent a wave of heat coursing through her. “That's okay. Take your time. The view from here's not bad."
Bianca glowered at him over her shoulder. But as his eyes raked over her from the tip of her hat to her bottom, clad in an old, torn pair of denim cut-offs, she felt as vulnerable as if he'd just stripped her naked. Vulnerable and ... hot. Remarkably hot.
When his intimate gaze slid down her legs, then back up again, Bianca floundered, came close to dropping the shears, and caught her shirt on one of the thorny branches. The caramel-colored tank top lifted, almost revealing that she wore absolutely nothing underneath.
He looked away, combing a hand through his hair. “Bianca, you might want to hear what I have to say."
"Maybe. Maybe not. It's a crapshoot, based on what I've heard so far.” She fiddled with her top, trying desperately to work it free without letting him know she was in a compromising position. She gave her shirt a swift tug. It tore at her abdomen.
Bianca bit her lip, shutting her eyes tight, willing the passage of humiliation to be swift and merciful.
He cleared his throat. “Your shirt just—"
Heatedly, she whirled around to face him. To the best of her ability, she adjusted her top to cover what it should and, with unmasked aggravation, snapped, “Really, the day is only so long and I have chores to do, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is—"
"Hale. Luke Hale,” he stated flatly. “Also known as Luke Halestrom."
When she dropped the gardening shears and stood there gaping at him, he added, a satisfied gleam in his eyes, “Now can we talk?"
Chapter Five
Bianca's eyes grew dark and compelling. She clamped her jaw tight and stared at him, the color in her cheeks draining, then flushing crimson.
"Are you okay?” He reached for her arm.
She backed away, irritably snapping, “That's a stupid question. What do you think?"
A sudden, unexpected flash of lightning jagged across the sky, followed by almost instantaneous thunder that Luke swore made the earth tremble beneath his feet.
As if a giant dagger had pierced the full belly of the sky, rain poured down on them without warning. A welcome change to the stifling heat, it fell in sharp stabs that stung, yet relieved.
Bianca stood as if frozen. Not so much as a flinch at the weather's bizarre unpredictability.
He swallowed hard. His throat burned and his heart was beating in quick jerks.
He'd expected anger from her. Outrage. Even disbelief. What he hadn't expected was stone cold silence.
Finally, Bianca yanked the hat off her head and tossed it aside, then demanded, “Why are you here, Luke?” She watched him with a critical squint.
"I came for answers,” he confessed. “I ... need answers.” He swiped a hand over his face in a futile effort to keep the rain from dripping into his eyes.
Her tank top, the color of caramel, was soaked, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Still, Luke couldn't seem to focus on anything but her eyes. He saw ragged veins of lightening in those eyes and the grim unpredictability of the storm. Buried further were shadows and secrets, locked so deep inside he wondered if she even remembered what they were.
> She tugged at her gardening gloves and let them drop at her feet. Then she snatched his wrist and forced open his hand. “Well ... I need some answers myself."
Luke didn't object or pull away. The startling fact was—he enjoyed her touch. Her hands were delicate. Smooth. Strong, yet soft.
While she traced the lines in his palm, Luke tried to convince himself that he felt nothing, when what he did feel was confusion. The wild and crazy kind that sneaks up on a prepubescent kid experiencing his first really intense crush.
Bianca clasped his hand, shutting her eyes tight. Rain-soaked hair was slicked back from her face, and her skin, a creamy mixture of ivory and pale rose, was glistening and wet. Thick lashes shadowed her cheeks and her mouth was pursed in concentration.
She was exquisite. Like no woman Luke had ever seen.
As she held his hand, some of his confusion ebbed. Suddenly Luke felt as if he could make sense out of things that had never made sense before.
His heart punched the insides of his chest with such force his bruised ribs ached. His scalp crawled. His gut burned. The blood in his veins bubbled, hot and hard. He should have pulled away, but all he wanted to do was grab her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless.
When her eyelids fluttered open, she gaped at him, one brow arched, and Luke had the uncanny feeling that Bianca had just read his mind. Then she released his hand, a gleam of certainty flickering in her eyes as she announced, “I need reinforcements."
* * * *
Luke reclined casually in a stiff wooden chair at the table in her den, his long legs extended in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his hands folded on his lap. He watched her with flat, unspeaking eyes.
Working hard at being oblivious to his stare, Bianca had quite a collection of butterflies fluttering in her belly. She had already changed her clothing, mortified when she'd realized her shirt was virtually see-through. She had to give him credit for keeping eye contact under those circumstances, not that she was well-endowed by any means. Slender, small-boned, slight-curved, she was no voluptuous bombshell.
Not that it mattered to Bianca what Luke Hale thought of her physical attributes. He was just another reporter who would blow in and out of town to make a quick buck on the Honeywells.
The fact that his last name was Halestrom only made things a little more interesting. And it was Halestrom, not Jones, not Hale. Bianca felt it when she'd taken his hand. That and the sensation of a battle, apparently in full throttle, spinning inside of him.
She'd pulled away before she could discover anything more. It would have been nice to look deeper—for instance, to determine what type of story he planned to write for his magazine—but Bianca had reservations about prying into people's personal thoughts and feelings. If asked, she would look for answers, but uninvited, she couldn't set aside ethics for her own personal gain. Some things were better left for fate and karma to decide. Not knowing also meant not obsessing over what could or would be.
Nevertheless, Bianca's gift hadn't exactly come with an operating manual. Perfecting and controlling her clairvoyance was a daily chore. That's why she needed reinforcements. Candles, herbs, perhaps even a spell, all to help maintain her focus.
When Luke reached across the table to finger the crystal ball, her scrying tool, she ordered, in a clipped tone, “Please don't touch that."
"Sorry.” He drew his hand back and drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. “What are you doing?"
She went to one set of bookshelves. “You'll see in a minute.” From the top shelf, Bianca pulled down three wooden boxes and set them on a simple oak coffee table in front of the stone fireplace.
"These boxes were handmade by Bartholomew Honeywell,” she told him in a hushed tone. With her index finger, she traced the carved pentagram symbol on one of the boxes. “He was my grandmother's brother."
"Abigail mentioned him today.” Luke dragged his legs in, then leaned over his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. “She said he died very young."
Bianca nodded, prying open the box lid. “Gran used to tell me stories about him. His gift was telekinesis.” She glanced at him, explaining, “The ability to move objects with his mind."
Distrust frosted his gaze, but he said nothing, his lips pressed together in a thin line of skepticism.
Ignoring his reaction, she continued. “He was a prankster. He liked to play tricks on the headmaster in school.” With a shake of her head, she chuckled softly. “Like erasing math problems from the board without ever leaving his seat. And once he sent the headmaster's hairpiece flying straight out the window. It landed in a pile of fresh horse manure just outside of the schoolhouse.” She popped the lid off of one box.
His closed-mouth smile tightened around the edges. “What's in there?” he probed, squinting to see.
"Ritual tools. Passed down for several generations."
In witchcraft, things passed down over decades, even centuries, were some of the most powerful instruments of magic.
Luke watched her with a suspicious, though intrigued stare. Bianca knew if she told him what she was doing, he'd only laugh, make snide remarks and, very likely, stroll right out the door. He would never understand that she wanted to establish a sacred space and summon the energy needed to see into the past again.
He cleared his throat. “I'd feel less freaked out if you'd tell me what's going on."
She pried open the last of the three boxes, telling him in a no-nonsense tone, “Patience is a virtue. Maybe you should give it a try."
"Or maybe I should just go.” He slid the chair away from the table. It scraped hard against the wood floor and sent a chill slithering up her spine.
"Don't move.” The two-word command sounded fraught with panic and admonition.
He stopped and surveyed her with a wary, piercing gaze. One brow shot up and a flicker of interest slid over his eyes.
"This concerns you, Luke. You should stay. Especially since you're a Halestrom.” She bit her lip before she said something that would give him incentive to leave after all.
He rolled his eyes, a derisive moan rumbling past his throat. “The curse."
The hair at the back of her neck bristled. “For a man with a death wish hanging over his head, you sure are cocky.” Ignoring his impudent stare, she took five different-colored tapered candles from one of the wooden boxes. “Please go to the cabinet over there and get five candleholders.” She tilted her head toward a small oak cabinet, relieved when she heard his feet shuffle across the wooden floor as he complied.
One by one he set the candleholders, carved from rowan ash for protection, on the table. “What are the candles for?"
Securing a taper into each holder, Bianca replied, “Red for courage. Yellow for protection. White for truth. Brown for uncertainty. And blue for understanding."
"Understanding what?"
"Like I said, you'll see."
"But I didn't like that answer the first time.” His smile was a little crooked and very sexy.
She bit her lip and wished her heart didn't have a will of its own. Every beat was a sharp jerk that sent waves of heat pulsing through her veins.
Luke Hale certainly knew how to employ charm and sex appeal to get what he wanted. A trait Bianca long ago began to associate with most average reporters. They all came from the same mold ultimately.
Bianca, on the other hand, was anything but average. The sooner Luke realized this, the better off they both would be.
She turned away and chastised herself for enjoying that smile of his a split-second longer than she should have. Pulling three tiny glass herb-filled vials from another box, she mused, “I need Angelica and coltsfoot."
"Are those friends of yours?"
She eyed him blandly, though her reply wavered with ill-concealed amusement. “Those are herbs. I'll be right back.” Headed for the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, “And for heaven's sake, keep your hands off my crystal ball."
Luke thought about going. He could've
walked out the door. Instead, he caved to curiosity and snatched up the crystal. He wanted to see how heavy it was. Besides, she'd told him not to touch it and he rather enjoyed pissing her off.
No guy, regardless of his age, could resist something the exact shape of a baseball. He was just about to toss it into the air when she re-entered the room. Her reproachful glare flooded heat to his cheeks. He put the crystal back on its stand and flashed a boyish grin. He shrugged. “It's a guy thing."
Bianca rolled her eyes, shook her head, but didn't comment. Instead she focused her attention on arranging the candles in a certain order, surrounding the crystal. Her efforts were meticulous and, heaven help him, incredibly sensual. Her hair, slightly mussed and still a little damp, enhanced her sexy nymph-like appearance. She smelled like summer air, roses and rain. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth pursed, her eyes sharp, bright and focused.
Sexy? Bianca Honeywell was off-the-charts sexy.
He folded his hands on the table. Clenched them, actually, along with his jaw. His hormones were officially on lock-down. He wasn't getting involved with this woman. No matter how much she aroused him. He was there for a story, not for a roll in the hay.
When the candles were positioned to her satisfaction, she set a small cauldron on the table. Sprinkling dried herbs into the iron pot, she intoned, “Sage for protection. Angelica and coltsfoot for visions. And—"
"Visions?” he repeated. Visions? What visions?
She nodded. “Visions."
His forehead creased. “Wait a minute. You're not ... not going to eat mushrooms or peyote and go into a Castaneda-like trance or anything like that, are y—"
"Are you sure you want to know?” She grabbed the back of her chair, leaning into it, her glittering jade eyes fixed on him.
He gulped. “If this involves me, like you say, don't I have the right to know what's going on?” He folded his arms across his chest and locked gazes with her.
So far, he'd been patient. Even willing to play along. Hell, it was all research, right? But it would be nice to know exactly what was going to happen before she said “hocus pocus” then tried to yank him into her nutty charade.
Bewitching the Bachelor Page 6