"Of course I want you to know what's going on. But I'm not going to explain anything if you plan on mocking me."
"Mocking is never something I plan on. It just happens."
Bianca studied him with a calculated stare. “Well, I don't appreciate it when you mock me. Or act like you're above all of this.” She waved a hand at the elaborate set-up of candles, herbs and crystals, then gripped the chair again.
"All of what?"
In a wooden tone, she replied, “Witchcraft, Luke."
He shook his head vehemently. “Don't use that word in front of my name."
She threw up her hands. “This is exactly what I'm talking about."
He lowered his chin, narrowed his gaze, but didn't respond.
Bianca watched him a moment. Something dark and troubling passed over her eyes. Finally, she drew a breath, then blurted, “When I touched your hand last night, I had a vision."
"Like a dream?"
"No. Like a vision.” One brow hiked up. “Are you with me?"
He nodded. “You think you have visions."
"No,” she snapped, exasperated. “I don't think I have visions. I have them. All the time. It's a type of clairvoyance. It's ... it's my gift.” She stroked a shaky hand through her hair. “One of my gifts.” Eyes closed, she drew another deep breath then moistened her dry lips. “This is crazy. I'm actually nervous."
His smile was more of a wry satisfied smirk. “Really?"
A frown settled over her features.
"I'm sorry.” Apologies were never his strong suit. Usually the words came up sounding shallow. His guess was, this time, he'd missed the sincerity mark again.
She folded her arms across her chest, but may as well have thrown a wall up between them. “Maybe this is a bad idea."
"It's okay, really. I get it. Visions are your gift,” he confirmed with a slow, steady nod. “Okay...” He didn't sound as convinced as he'd hoped.
"Oh, you're just a real piece of work, aren't you? Give me your hand.” She reached across the table and snatched his wrist, not giving him time to react.
Since he didn't believe in clairvoyance, not even a little, he let her hold his hand again. Frankly, he liked it. The thrill, however, was short-lived. After a brief moment, she let go, her own hand dropping to her side. “You've never been married and haven't had a relationship that's lasted longer than a month."
He sneered and waved a dismissive hand. “Impressive, but you've just described more than half the male population."
Taking his skepticism as a challenge, both brows arched over eyes that were razor-sharp. A small confident smile curled the corners of her lush pink mouth. “Your last fling was with a woman named Liz Booker. She works with you at The World Today Magazine."
Luke swallowed whatever snide remark he'd been about to make. It went down in one huge acrid lump as he gave her a sidelong stare of disbelief.
Studying him unblinking, Bianca recited, “She drives a red sports car and broke up with you because you were afraid of commitment.” Pausing, both brows lifted, she asked in a self-complacent tone, “Do you need more? Because I know what her favorite color is and that she has a mole on her left—"
His hand shot up, palm toward her. His tone was hot as a bullet. “Stop.” Luke's heart was in his throat. He felt squeamish and flustered.
"Luke—"
"Don't say another damned word.” His voice was icy, and he shoved away from the table, watching her with an angry, suspicious glare. Standing, he straightened his shoulders and pointed a finger at her, furious, alarmed, and unwilling to admit to feeling either. “I don't know how you found all of that out—who you called—how you got your information—but you have no business poking around in my life."
"Granted, I'm not the reporter here, but—” She didn't look upset or remorseful and that made him even angrier.
"Cut it out!” he growled, rage, hot and bitter, searing his throat.
Her face blanched and she bit into her pale lower lip, watching him with wide, apprehensive eyes.
Glad that she appeared intimidated, he snarled, “You'll stop at nothing to convince me you're a witch. I've already told you I don't believe in any of this.” He waved his arms about wildly, encompassing the stage she had set for her charade. “I'm not falling for your act like everyone else.” He jabbed an index finger into his chest. “I'm the guy who's going to expose you for what you really are ... a crazy pathological liar."
If she'd been frightened by his outburst, her fear passed quickly. He watched as she composed herself, squaring her shoulders, hoisting her chin. In her eyes shone defiance. An indignant shade of red flooded her cheeks and her mouth formed a thin line of disdain. She shook, not with fear, but with fury.
With a wave of her hand all five candles lit at once. She lifted her chin another notch and fiercely held his gaze. Luke felt the blood drain from his face but he wasn't giving in that easily. “So you're a magician. What's that prove?"
"Do you see mirrors, Luke? Wires? Smokescreens?” The sound she made, a cross between a shriek and a groan, rang with frustration. “What is it going to take to make you see?"
"I'm leaving now.” He went to the door. “When you're ready to give me some honest answers, Bianca, I'll be around. But I'm not staying to watch your three-ring circus."
As his hand connected with the doorknob, he experienced another electric shock, strangely similar to the one he'd experienced the night before, on his backside, when he'd leaned against the table. The sensation made his skin crawl.
He turned the handle then froze in a floundering moment of misgiving.
If he left now, like this, he might be destroying any future opportunity to interview Bianca, and no one knew more about Celia's curse. He wouldn't be able to finish the story.
However, if he didn't leave now, like this, there was no telling what he might do. He was walking a fine line between throttling her and wanting to tear her clothes off. He could take her, impetuously, right there, in the middle of her den, and he knew they would both enjoy it.
Thinking about that sent a jolt of spicy desire rushing through him. It centered itself between his legs. Sweat bubbled up over his brow and his heart thumped at his temples.
Her voice was quiet but adamant. “Luke ... Last night, when I took your hand, I saw Celia's hanging. I saw Liam Halestrom and his wife. It was like I was there. But you were, too, somehow. I could feel it."
"I wasn't there."
"I know you weren't. Neither was I. But in my vision—"
"You were holding my hand. That's why you felt as if I was there.” Luke looked at her and knew she thought he was wrong.
"That's not it. It wasn't like that."
He lifted a hand and sent her a warning glare. “I don't care what it was or wasn't like, Bianca. It doesn't matter. It's not real and you can't make it real. So just ... stop."
"How do you explain the men who've died, Luke?” she snapped, her tone cold and biting. “Are there any living Halestroms besides you?"
"I have a cousin somewhere. Texas, I think."
"Just you and one cousin. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"
He shrugged apathetically. “People die all the time."
"Especially in the Halestrom family.” Her tone was soft, not unkind, but her words packed a punch.
Luke shook his head, his temper rising again. He wielded an angry, reproachful finger at her. “You're not going to do this. You can't convince me that every Halestrom man who's dead died because Celia Honeywell cursed him."
She gripped the back of the chair, her knuckles turning white. “What if it's true? What happens to you, Luke?"
He met her somber, worried eyes with a blank stare, his words an empty reply. “I'll die when my time comes. Not because of some three hundred year old curse."
"You're sure about that, are you?"
He sneered, rolling his eyes. “Of course I am."
"Then why have you never married?” she probed, her gaze boring through him, searching
, prying. “Or fallen in love?"
His throat and jaw tightened and he looked away. “You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."
Her confident expression had pinpricks of electricity poking his scalp and the back of his neck, making him reconsider his last words.
No. He wasn't this gullible. She wouldn't suck him in this way. Bianca Honeywell wasn't clairvoyant. She didn't have visions. And damn it, she wasn't going to convince Luke that he was the victim of a dead witch's curse.
She didn't know him.
"You're playing with fire, Bianca.” His expression was set in granite, his tone icy. Enunciating each word clearly, with emphasis, he cautioned, “Don't screw with me."
Every candle blew out as he left, slamming the door.
* * * *
His hands shaking, it took Luke three tries to unlock the door to his room at the Clover Falls Inn. Once inside, he fastened the deadbolt, went to the mini bar and poured himself a shot of cheap whiskey. It burned a hole in his esophagus on its way to igniting a fire in his belly. The second and third shots went down easier. After the fourth, his hands stopped trembling.
She had probably checked around. Found out what magazine he worked for. Then called and talked to Marie, his bored assistant, who loved nothing more than to jabber about Luke's philandering. His fling with Liz had ended only a month ago and would've still been fresh gossip for Marie.
But how could Marie have known about the mole on Liz's left—?
The candles were even harder to explain. But he would. Somehow.
He could call Jim Bernstein, his friend in California who did special affects for big screen movies. Jim would be able to explain how candles might appear to light by themselves. He made a mental note to call Jim in the morning.
Luke grabbed two more of the single shot bottles of whiskey. Falling onto the shabby bed, he threw his head back and took a long swig, hating that, when he closed his eyes, he still saw Bianca's face.
He loathed her and lusted after her almost equally. A twisted combination. Wasn't it? To despise a woman so much that he wanted nothing more than to devour that sexy, full mouth of hers? Strip her bare? Make love to her until his brain matter turned into oatmeal?
"Damn.” Tipping the tiny bottle again until it was empty, he felt his toes go numb. His walls were up and, still, Bianca was getting to him. Now she wasn't just a certifiable wacko. She was a sexy certifiable wacko that he wanted, desperately, to take to bed.
Curse or no curse, Honeywell women were bad news.
"I'll drink to that.” His tongue weighed a hundred pounds, but the dull ache in his gut remained.
Tomorrow was another day. He would visit Abigail O'Grady at her office, look through a few books, and see how much information she had to fill the gaping holes in his pitifully nonexistent article.
He'd poke around town, too. See what he could scrape up there. So now word was out that he worked for a magazine. Good. People in small quiet towns like Clover Falls loved to be quoted in black and white. No matter how many reporters had combed the area already, he'd find plenty of five-seconds-of-fame seekers dying to talk to him.
If he was able to glean enough information from Abigail and whoever else he interviewed, Luke might never have to see Bianca Honeywell again.
That thought should have made him happy. It didn't.
"Forget her,” he mumbled.
But that could've been the whiskey talking.
* * * *
The man was tall. Thin. With jet-black hair, a dark beard, and a large dark mole on his right cheek. That was how folks remembered him. That and his deep Southern accent.
He tried to be inconspicuous, but his height alone—a strapping six feet eight inches—turned heads everywhere. But he wouldn't let that get in the way of his mission.
He didn't have time to think of clever disguises. There were more important things to do. How he looked and who he was wouldn't matter when all was said and done.
Since the day he turned thirteen, he'd known what he had to do. That was the first time he'd heard about the Honeywell curse, how it killed Halestrom men. Too many lives had been lost in three hundred years of dying. Someone would have to pay.
The Honeywell witches would burn in hell.
After his father died, he knew this curse had to be stopped. Daddy had said the only way the curse would end was if all the Honeywell witches were dead. It was up to him to avenge his daddy's death and the untimely passing of every Halestrom man.
He would've loved to see the witches suffer a hanging. To watch their faces turn blue and their eyes bulge from their crazy, Satan-serving heads. But a hanging would be too conspicuous and a burning would work just as well.
He'd go to Connecticut, then England. There were only two Honeywells left—Bianca and Blythe. Their days were numbered.
He was Cabot Halestrom and it was time to turn the tables.
Chapter Six
"Here you go, Julie. Put this under your pillow tonight."
Bianca pressed the small sachet pouch into Julie's palm, smiling at the sweet thirty-something woman who co-owned The Little Corner Deli on First and Main with her husband Darryl.
Julie's skeptical nut-brown eyes studied Bianca over freckled cheeks. “What's in here?” She sniffed at the pouch then turned it over in her hands.
"Everything but the kitchen sink.” Bianca gave her a quick wink, then explained, “Lupine, heliotrope, elder, purslane, wormwood ... the works. All you need to cure those nightmares, in a handy-dandy white-lace pouch."
"Darryl thinks it's the scoop of cookie dough ice cream I have before bed every night,” Julie confessed with an abashed giggle. Eyeing the sachet, she added, “But I guess a little extra help can't hurt. Thanks, Bianca."
"That's not all...” Bianca's hand dove into her retro 1970-something beaded bag. She pulled out two small bottles. Handing Julie the dark one, she said, “Lavender oil. Rub it on your temples before bedtime. It'll help you sleep."
Julie unfastened the cap, sniffed, and breathed a sigh. “Oh ... It smells wonderful.” Her eyes gleamed appreciatively. “Did you make this, too?"
Bianca nodded, beaming with pride and the kind of satisfaction that came from helping a friend in need.
As rumor had it, Julie was in need. Of a good night's sleep, anyway. Bianca didn't typically engage in local gossip, but Julie's mother was worried. Julie's mother just happened to be Abigail O'Grady.
"And these...” Bianca held up the last remedy. “These are chamomile tablets. Take two before bedtime. They'll relax you."
Julie gratefully accepted the small clear bottle of tiny white pills. “How much do I owe you?” she asked as the bell over the door chimed, though both women barely noticed the arrival of another customer in the deli.
With a wave of her hand, Bianca brushed the suggestion away. “Oh, you don't owe me anything, Julie. We'll catch up next time."
Julie glanced from the oil in one hand to the pills in the other then gaped at Bianca. “This is very generous, Bianca. I know it's early yet, but let me treat you to lunch anyway."
Bianca inspected the menu overhead, considering the offer, and deciding it was too good to pass up. Julie's sandwiches were amazing. With a broad grin, she agreed. “Sure. That sounds great. Thanks. Make it turkey and provolone, on squaw, no onions."
With an energetic nod, Julie set down the bottles and the sachet. Tightening the apron around her waist, her movements were quick and busy. Like hummingbird flutters, Bianca had always thought. It was no wonder the tireless, petite woman couldn't settle down at night.
"You should try yoga,” she suggested casually.
"You think so?” Julie tossed a glance over her shoulder, the red ponytail at the top of her head flicking back and forth.
"Yep. It's wonderful for relaxa—"
Bianca's voice caught mid-sentence when the customer behind her murmured, quite close to her ear, “I didn't realize witches made house calls."
Stiffening, sh
e whirled around, coming face to face with Luke Hale.
Dark hair, thick and pushed away from his face with the exception of a wavy swath that fell across his forehead, gave him a “bad boy” air made more intense by his taunting grin.
She clenched her teeth against the curl of desire that spiraled in her belly. His buff-hued T-shirt, tucked at the waist, helped make it impossible to ignore the honey tones in his brown eyes. As if any help were needed in that department.
Something mischievous flashed across those eyes. Her heart fluttered oddly, a hair-trigger reaction that was dismaying, especially since she'd been doing a splendid job of disliking him.
When his fragrance—a dizzying aroma of summer in the forest after a long rain—filled her senses, Bianca sank her upper teeth into her bottom lip and tried to snap out of it.
"Turkey and provolone, on squaw, no onions.” Julie's voice hummed into her thoughts in a sing-song way, as if it wasn't the first time the deli owner had repeated the order.
"Um ... yes ... that's it,” Bianca stammered, her cheeks hot. Heart racing, she turned back to Julie, putting extra emphasis on her next two words. “To go."
"Does that mean you won't join me for a quick bite?” came the brazen invitation from behind her.
"I have errands,” she replied curtly.
"That's a shame.” He sighed. “So do I, as a matter of fact, so perhaps it's for the best."
"No doubt about it, I'm sure."
"Pickles?” Julie asked jauntily. There was a flicker of interest in her eyes that made Bianca think she wasn't exactly oblivious to the exchange between the sarcastic reporter and the annoyed witch.
"Yes, please.” The reply squeezed past Bianca's tight throat.
"Turkey on squaw. Sounds good,” Luke muttered.
"Everything here is good.” Bianca fidgeted with the bead pattern on the outside of her bag, her foot tapping with impatience.
To Julie he called out, “I'll have what she's having, please."
Julie flashed him an easy smile. “You got it."
"Where are you headed after this?” Luke asked Bianca in a casual off-handed tone that grated on her nerves.
"That's not any of your—"
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