"I was just wondering if our paths might cross again."
"With any luck, they won't."
His laugh was spontaneous. “Ouch. That's a lot of sarcasm poured into fifteen seconds of conversation."
She pivoted, facing him with an angry, pointed gaze. “Listen, Luke, you bug me. You left my house angry last night after you tried to reduce me to the size of a gnat. Now today you're acting as if everything's just peachy. Frankly it gives me the creeps."
His smile was thin-lipped. “I didn't mean to make you feel like a gnat."
She glowered at him. “Here's a tip on winning friends and influencing people—when trying to sound sincere, tone down the ridicule in your voice."
The narrow smile tightened into a wry little smirk that perturbed her more than his casual attitude did.
Bianca groaned, waving a hand. “Oh, just go away."
"No can do. I'm sticking around for a while. I've got interviews lined up.” He counted on his fingers. “Faye at the candy shop. Jason at the video rental place. Francine at the cleaners.” He shrugged, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “It's amazing how chatty people get when they find out there's a reporter in town."
She gaped at him, annoyance clawing at her throat. He really did intend to make her life a living hell. Bianca averted her gaze from the smug smile on his face, blinking in disbelief. This reporter seemed a lot more tenacious than the others. Except for the ones who worked at the trashy tabloids. They were persistent to a fault.
"I once sent a sleazy tabloid reporter running back to New York with a horrible case of Montezuma's revenge. He had to see a doctor.” She hoisted her chin, holding fast to his semi-amused gaze. Eyes narrowed in warning, she wanted Luke to know that, once provoked, her anger wasn't to be underestimated.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “I don't work for a sleazy tabloid."
She shrugged effortlessly. “Do you think that matters?"
"And it would take a lot more than a bad case of diarrhea to scare me off.” He surveyed her with bland eyes.
"That sounds like a dare, Luke."
"Show me what you've got, Bianca."
So angry—so perturbed—she could have screamed. Even more disturbing was the fact that, still, there was a quick, hot snap of desire flickering in her belly. Perspiration beaded over her brow, every muscle tightening against her wanton physical response to this insufferable man.
Insufferable? Yes. But what did she want to do about it?
What Bianca wanted was to grab him by the collar and plant a toe-curling kiss on that smug, sexy mouth of his.
Heavens ... She was losing her mind. Months of celibacy had her hormones ready to do the thinking for her.
"Here you go, Bianca.” Julie watched them with wide, interested eyes and a wary grin but made no comment.
Bianca knew then that, before sundown, there would be fresh gossip pulsing through town. Biting her lip, she took the sandwich, thanked Julie, and scurried out the door as fast as she could.
"Bianca, dear!” Reba Perkins called from across the road, waving wildly. Every movement bold and dramatic, she shouted, “Wait right there! I'm coming across!"
Disregarding passersby who gawked and tittered at the flamboyant divorcee, Reba pranced across the street. Pranced, that is, the way any fifty year old woman in pink spandex pants and thin-strapped stiletto heels might prance. In many ways Reba Perkins reminded Bianca of Abigail's poodle Lulu.
"I'm so glad I found you!” Reba gasped melodramatically, smoothing her bleached blonde hair back with long, manicured nails the color of bubble gum. “I need help with my pantsies."
Bianca gave her a blank stare. “Your pantsies?"
She nodded. “Yes. My pantsies. I think I must be over-watering them or something."
Dawning realization hit Bianca and twitched her mouth into a grin. “Oh. Pansies. Jeez, Reba, I thought it was something catastrophic. Illness. Death. Not pansies.” Bianca crinkled the brown paper bag that held her sandwich. “I really need to go, can we discuss this later?” The last thing she wanted was to be standing in front of the sandwich shop when Luke Hale—
Too late.
Reba's face lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler. Flashing her most gorgeous smile, she threw out a hand. “Oh, you must be that reporter everyone's been talking about! I'm Reba Perkins. That's R-E-B-A P-E-R-K-I-N-S. You won't forget how to spell it, will you?” She grabbed his hand and gave it a hearty shake.
Luke seemed hard-pressed to keep from laughing out loud. Bianca had to give him credit for pulling off no more than a winning smile, even if amusement creased the corners of his eyes. “Luke Hale. It's nice to meet you, Reba Perkins."
"They said you were handsome.” Demureness wasn't easy for Reba, but she tried, Bianca had to give her credit for that. “I'd love to help you with your article, Luke.” Coming closer, she told him, in a loud whisper, “You know, rumor has it my great-great-grandmother was courted by a Halestrom who died from that curse."
"Oh, really now?"
Bianca read exaggerated interest in his tone. Her best guess was that he was merely playing along.
Reba nodded, eyes wide, mouth pulled into a thin line of frosted pink lipstick. “I've got her diary. At my house. Would you like to come by? I'm free this afternoon..."
Luke shifted uncomfortably and turned a fair shade of red. When he glanced at Bianca, she flashed him a puckish grin just to let him know she was enjoying the show.
Predictably, he tried to wriggle out of Reba's invitation. “Well, actually, I'm meeting with Abigail O'Grady in about...” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Oh, my, I'd better get mov—"
"Maybe you could swing by Reba's after you meet with Abigail. They live within a couple of blocks of each other,” Bianca brightly suggested.
Luke's eyes darkened and he fixed an incensed gaze on her.
Smiling sweetly, Bianca shrugged. “Just a suggestion. You know, since you're lining up all of those interviews and all. You may as well add Reba here to your list."
The muscle in his jaw flexed. He managed a tight smile for Reba. “I'll see what I can do,” he ground out evenly.
"I'll be looking forward to it, Luke.” She glimpsed her own wristwatch, a dainty gold number that had probably cost a small fortune, and gasped, “Oh, dear! Late for my facial. Gotta go.” Laying a hand on Bianca's arm, she insisted, “Call me. You know, about the pantsies. Toodles!” And she was off, prancing down Main Street in a flash of pink spandex and platinum blond hair.
"Pantsies?"
"Never mind. Well, looks like you've got yourself a hot date,” Bianca remarked with a sly wink. “Reba Perkins is recently single. She had the best divorce attorney in Connecticut. Her husband was worth millions. Now she's filthy rich and just itching to spend it on some hunky gigolo.” She poked an elbow into his side, enjoying tormenting him. “This could be your lucky day."
His cheeks went ruddy. He laughed, shaking his head, looking at his boots. “That was mean."
Bianca shrugged. “Hard to pass up a dare. You wanted to see what I had, remember?"
"That's not what I—” He shrugged and held up his brown bag from the deli. “Come on, let's eat. I noticed a little park down that way. Join me.” Luke took her elbow, not giving her much choice.
Or, perhaps, pretending that he'd coerced her made it easier to excuse the fact that her legs too willingly followed his lead. “I have errands...” Her voice trailed off and she scolded herself for sounding feeble and indecisive.
"So do I. But you're going to eat that sandwich and I'm going to eat this one.” He lifted his bag with a grin. “Why not do it together?"
Her throat went dry and Bianca realized she absolutely had to stop finding a sexual innuendo in everything he said. This wasn't a game. This was real life. If she'd learned anything, it was to protect herself from nosey, conniving reporters.
"This looks nice.” He stopped in front of a park bench in the shaded courtyard between the post office and t
he library.
Bianca bypassed the bench, opting for a patch of grass beneath a lofty old oak tree. She plopped down, sitting cross-legged beneath her tropical floral-printed cotton skirt that was full and pooled around her, leaving only the tips of her leather sandals visible.
He cocked his head to one side, watching her with a curious smile. Then Luke plunked down beside her, resting his back against the tree, extending his long denim-clad legs in front of him. Those jeans he wore did nothing to disguise the carved muscle of his thighs or that firm backside of his. Rather, the fitted denim enhanced those assets and ... others.
She looked away, blushing from her chest, where the scooped neck of her jade-colored top began, all the way up to her forehead.
They rustled through their paper bags, the only other sounds coming from the moderately busy road. Cars cruised past. Folks window-shopped on Main, attended to business at the post office, or decided to spend part of the warm afternoon perusing books inside the air-conditioned library.
Overhead, a brightly colored finch crooned shrilly, perhaps to inform others of its kind that food was nearby. A mild breeze rustled leaves in the trees and brought the fragrance of jasmine to Bianca's nose, from where it spilled over decorative pots randomly placed throughout the courtyard.
From his bag Luke pulled two bottles of lemonade. When Bianca looked up, he passed one to her, his grin lopsided and, darn it, positively irresistible.
"Thanks. You didn't have to.” Her throat was parched and she fiddled a bit nervously with the lid.
"Can I ask you a few questions?” he asked off-handedly.
She held the lemonade at eye level, squinting at it warily.
"What are you doing?” he asked, clearly amused.
"Looking for strings."
He laughed, shook his head, and said, “It would seem that I bought the lemonade in exchange for your time..."
She took a long drink, glad it was icy cold and tart. “Yes, it would seem. My time's worth more than a lemonade, though, in case you were wondering."
He chuckled again and looked away a moment, toward the road, where a line of cars had stopped for the red light at Main and First. The breeze played with the swath of hair on his forehead and Bianca tried to ignore the fact that he looked like a cover model for some trendy men's magazine.
"After last night, I hadn't planned to ... see you again,” he admitted, dragging his honey-brown eyes back to her.
She took another quick swig from her lemonade. “It looks like you had a change of plans."
"It does look that way,” he agreed with a sheepish smile before flatly stating, “Bianca, I don't believe in curses, witches, or magic."
"That's going to make it hard for you to write a story about a witch's three hundred year old curse, then, don't you think?"
He shook his head. “I think finding the truth might involve disproving the whole fairytale.” He glanced down at the sandwich in his hands, then back up at Bianca. “Oddly enough, I can't do any of that without you."
She cleared her throat and tried to quell the instant flash of indignation flooding heat through her veins. “Let me get this straight, Joe Reporter. You want me to help you prove that witches, magic, and curses don't exist?” She studied him beneath eyebrows curved in amazement.
His cheeks reddened. “No. I just want you to answer my questions. It's my job to prove what does or doesn't exist."
"You realize that, when you discover you're wrong,” she told him in a steady, assured tone, “your article won't look and sound the way you're expecting it to."
With a crooked but charming smile he said, “I guess I'll have to deal with that when the time comes.” His eyes probed hers so deeply, she had to look away to control the accelerated beating of her heart. “What do you say, Bianca? You're the only one I can talk to in this town whose sentences don't start with ‘rumor has it’ or ‘folks say'.” Luke raked a hand through his hair. His expression seemed almost desperate, if she'd thought him capable of feeling desperation. “I don't want rumors or folklore. I want facts. Can you give me facts?"
She studied him a moment, a twister of contrary emotions spinning inside of her. The press had burned her so many times, the fact that she was even considering his invitation bordered on madness. Then again, Luke wasn't working for a sleazy tabloid. The World Today magazine was reputable, honest, and known for its accuracy in reporting.
But reporting on witches? Curses? That kind of reporting had to be done carefully—because she knew he was about to have his whole philosophy of denial shattered. And she had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't be working for a respected magazine if his ethics and scruples were at all questionable. So there was always the chance that this could turn into a genuine revelatory experience. At least for him, anyway. If given the real hard facts, would he do the honorable thing and report it accurately? She hoped so. With all her heart, she hoped so.
Luke wouldn't get the straight scoop from anyone but her. If he planned to write an article disproving witches, magic and curses, who better to challenge—and disprove—his theories than Bianca?
She sighed thoughtfully, tearing the crust off her squaw bread. “One question at a time,” she conceded.
"Excuse me?” he asked, wide-eyed, between bites of his sandwich.
"One question at a time. That's all I'll agree to.” She shrugged, adding in a no-nonsense tone, “Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it.” His smile was sincere and he nodded whole-heartedly. “So, when did you first realize you had gifts?"
She grinned. “You don't waste any time, do you?"
"This article goes to print in a week.” He sank perfect teeth into his sandwich, chewed, and then chased it down with a swig of lemonade.
"Hmm...” She stuffed a piece of crust into her mouth and pondered his question while she munched. “Well, my mother used to tell me stories.” A swift, sharp yank in her chest accompanied a bittersweet smile as she thought of Mother. “She would come into the nursery to check on me and all of my stuffed animals would be dancing circles around my head. I was less than a year old."
His eyes widened and his cheek bulged with the mouthful he'd been chewing. His “wow” was muffled.
"But I don't think I really understood I had gifts until I was about four or five.” Bianca bit into her sandwich, realizing she was famished. After a sip of her lemonade, she eyed him with a sly grin. “I thought you didn't believe in gifts of magic."
Choking on his lemonade, he managed a hoarse, “I'm speaking hypothetically."
"Ah. Well, hypothetically then, you might want to include the definition of magic in your article.” She took another bite, wiping her mouth with a deli napkin. “The manipulation of energies to create a desired result.” She waved the hand holding her napkin. “You should write it down."
"Later. Give me an example of manipulating energies."
"Okay,” she agreed with a contemplative nod. “Do you have anything specific in mind?"
He shrugged. “You pick something."
"Fine. Just pulling one out of my hat ... Say a woman wants to be noticed by a man she ... admires."
He grinned in amusement. “A love spell."
"Sure, okay, a love spell.” Bianca inclined her head, surveying him for any sign of mockery. Surprised when he appeared to be listening intently, without ridicule, she continued. “Anyway, she would choose an evening when the moon is waxing, since she wants the man to be conscious of her, for that consciousness to grow. What we want to decrease or be rid of, we ask for on the waning moon. What we want to increase or gain, for instance wealth or success, we ask for during the waxing moon."
He nodded. “Makes sense."
"During the waxing moon, she could do a simple spell. She would light candles, one that represents her—perhaps the color that corresponds with her astrological sign—and another representing the man she's interested in. She would inscribe his name on the candle. Or,” she considered, angling her head to one side
, “if she were creative, she might even make a poppet."
"A poppet?"
"A doll. To represent the man. But a candle inscribed with his name would do fine.” Bringing thoughtful eyes upward, she added, “And more candles. Yellow for attraction. And orange for encouragement."
His brow furrowed. “Encouragement?"
She sipped lemonade and replied, “To encourage attraction."
"Ah...” He smiled.
"She would burn incense of basil and cinnamon, and use essential oils of lavender, musk and patchouli, all of which aid in attraction and love."
"That's a lot of work. What if she just wore a mini skirt, cornered him and asked him out?” he suggested, tongue in cheek.
Bianca rolled her eyes. “If you're going to make jokes—"
Lifting a hand, his expression was contrite. “I'm sorry."
She gave him a dubious sideways glance, summed up his sincerity, and realized it was safe to continue. “She might use crystals. Especially quartz, to amplify the energy."
His forehead creased. “How?"
"Luke—I don't know. Crystals just work that way."
He lowered his chin, watching her beneath dark brows, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “That's not a very scientific response."
"There's a lot about witchcraft that science can't explain,” she snapped irritably.
After a brief pause, during which Bianca tried to subdue her frustration, with Luke watching calmly, he asked, “What would her spell be like?"
Absently, she tugged a piece of her sandwich, then held it between her fingertips. “Spells are very individualized. No two have to be the same. The magic is in the intent of the witch."
"Can you give me an example?"
Bianca nodded. “The woman would probably bring the candles closer together. Hers and the man's. Surround them with the candles for encouragement and attraction. She'd make up a chant she could say over and over while she does this."
"Interesting.” Pensively, he took another swig of lemonade. “So ... Fallon's a witch, too? And Miles?"
Bianca nodded, but took that opportunity to draw a bold, unequivocal line. “I'd rather you speak with them personally. Don't mention them in your article without their consent."
Bewitching the Bachelor Page 8