He jogged to catch up with her. “Why?"
"Because you didn't come here to ask for her turkey stuffing recipe. Or what her favorite color is. I know what you want, and you're not getting it from me.” Her arms had a purposeful swing as she walked. Luke had to dodge her clenched fists.
"Do you know who Mark Halestrom was?"
Incensed, she snapped, “Of course I do. Do you?"
He was almost out of breath. She was obviously in better shape than he was, and that perturbed him. Not a patient man by nature, he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and gently, but firmly, brought her to a halt.
When she whirled around to glower at him, he said quickly, “Mark was your mother's fiance."
"I know that.” Her tone was clipped, her eyes stony. “Now let go of me."
"Bianca, he was my uncle.” He swallowed hard over the pressure in his throat, but held fast to her indignant stare, watching it falter a little. “I have questions."
When she spoke, her tone wasn't as icy, but it wasn't patient either. “If you want answers, you'd better let go of my wrist right now.” She eyed his grasp on her arm then glared at him.
Luke hesitated, surveying the caution in her eyes. He wasn't sure what she was threatening, but he released her out of courtesy then fixed a steady, determined stare on her.
When it came to lie-detection, Luke had well-honed instincts. If he didn't trust the informant, or the information, he didn't print it. A reporter without good lie-detecting skills was bound to commit career suicide. He hadn't come this far because he wasn't good at what he did.
Bianca didn't flinch. With conviction, she affirmed, “Yes, Mark Halestrom was my mother's fiance.” Her lip suddenly trembled, but she didn't free herself from his unrelenting stare. Rather, she raised her chin, her mouth set in a grim line, and held her own convincingly. Emotions ran deep in her eyes and Luke felt his heartbeat pulsing in his throat.
"Listen, I know this must be hard for you, and I'm sorry—” he began with what might have been a sincere apology.
She stopped him dead by lifting a hand, her eyes narrowing bitterly. “You wanted to open this can of worms, now deal with it."
Her somber expression made his stomach pitch. The muscle in his jaw flexed. He lifted his shoulders. “Fine."
Crossing slender arms slightly pink from the sun over her chest, she drew a long breath, then declared, “My mother didn't kill him."
He lifted a brow. “You're sure?"
Her jaw tightened. He saw the gold flecks in her eyes dance angrily. “You've got a lot of audacity to ask me that. Haven't you done any research?"
"I know what the books, the newspapers, and the police reports say, Bianca. I need more than that."
Her beautiful mouth twisted into a wry smirk, and her eyes hardened. The pain of past betrayals, he assumed. Damage done, no doubt, by the reporters who'd come before him.
"Well, if you're looking for a juicy love-gone-bad story about a woman killing her fiance the night before the wedding, you'll have to go to the cheesy tabloids for that.” Squaring her shoulders she stated in a flat tone, “She had a solid alibi. She was at the bridal shop for a last minute fitting."
"Did she have any idea who did it?"
"I'm assuming it was the seamstress."
He let out an exasperated sigh. “That's not what I meant, Bianca."
She took a deep breath, combed her fingers through her hair, and acquiesced. “I know.” Her troubled eyes lowered to her hiking boots, holding there for a moment, before she dragged them back up to his. “Luke, can we set some perimeters?"
Her tone and gaze were both soft and imploring, and could've melted him like butter left out in the sun, if he'd allowed it. “Perimeters? As in...?"
"As in what you print and what you don't."
Those eyes of hers had him pinned. He wondered how often she got exactly what she wanted, and he had to admit there was a certain type of magic in that alone.
Nevertheless, he reminded himself, Luke was a professional and not easily swayed by ... womanly wiles. No matter how breathtaking—how persuasive—those wiles were. He managed a nonchalant shrug. “That depends."
She matched his shrug, tilting her chin a notch higher, stating with finality, “I'm not going to discuss Mark Halestrom unless we can go off the record."
His jaw clenched. “I don't like ultimatums."
Defiance gleamed in her eyes. “And I don't like nosey reporters poking around in my business."
"Technically this isn't just your business,” he challenged, also folding his arms across his chest. His body language came with a satisfied smile.
"Technically,” she echoed, “without my help, your article will have more holes in it than a slice of Swiss cheese."
Irked, Luke weighed her ultimatum, realizing that, damn it, he needed her help. Still, he hated going off the record. He needed that information about Mark Halestrom, not only for the article, but also to help him learn the truth about his ancestry.
His personal stake in the matter won this round.
Disgruntled, he yielded. “Fine. Off the record."
She smiled, pleased. “Good, then. Come on, let's go back to my place, and I'll tell you the whole story."
* * * *
Bianca would give Luke what he wanted. Then he would owe her a favor in return.
His footsteps came behind hers as the wind kicked up, blowing clouds in for another summer thunderstorm. The humidity was thick enough to cut with a knife, making it hard to breathe, much less think clearly.
On the porch, Luke stood beside her, stroking a hand through his hair, the muscles in his arm flexing with the gesture. A wayward swath fell back onto his forehead and he flashed a lopsided grin. Being oblivious to his sex appeal wasn't easy. The effort it took, however futile, made perspiration bead along her brow.
He stood so close, his body heat encompassed her. The fragrance he wore was his own, an enticing mix of mildly spicy cologne, dirt, and summer air—so positively alluring, Bianca couldn't think straight. Or even get her key in the door. It took two tries, which he politely overlooked.
Letting him inside was a mistake, not to mention allowing herself to be alone with him. She wavered erratically between frustration and longing for this man. There was no telling which side would win—her common sense or her starved libido.
Luke shuffled in behind her, his boots scraping the floor, grating on her frayed nerves. Bianca kicked off her shoes, certain that, once barefoot, she'd feel grounded, even stable. Fat chance. It was just one step closer to being naked.
How would he react if she threw herself at him?
She was out of practice, sure, but she wasn't blind. The chemistry between them sizzled. Bianca was positive Luke felt it, too. The dusky shadows in his eyes mirrored wants and needs that matched her own.
"Iced tea?” The words squeaked past her tense throat.
"Sure.” He nodded, eyes twinkling handsomely, his smile crooked and boyish.
Did he realize he oozed charisma? Probably, she decided. He was a reporter. It was in his job description to ooze charisma.
Gnawing her lip, she left the den. Fetching two glasses of iced tea with trembling hands, Bianca tried to calm herself. The last thing she needed was to get intimately involved with a reporter. On a scale of one to ten for big mistakes, that would be a solid twenty.
This was business. He was there for an article. Her role was to make sure he didn't drag her family name through the mud, the way every other reporter before him had.
His gorgeous honey-brown eyes were not her concern, nor was his charming smile. Or how sexy his voice was when he spoke her name, laughed from his gut, or engaged in spicy repartee with her. The way denim hugged those thighs of his ... not to mention his backside...
Boy oh boy. She was in so much trouble.
When she returned, he was sitting in a chair at the table, eyeing the crystal ball. “You kept it all set up,” he noted, surveying the arrangement of candle
s, herbs and crystals. His eyes embraced hers as he took a glass of iced tea from her shaky hand. “Thanks."
"You're welcome.” She sipped, willing the cold liquid to quell the fire in her belly. “Yes. It's still set up."
He drank. She watched, heart pulsing in her ears.
"Luke..."
"Yes?"
"Can I barter with you?"
"Depends.” One side of his mouth lifted and interest flickered in his eyes.
"On?"
"What's in it for me, of course,” he answered, as if it should have been obvious.
Of course it was. Obvious, that is, if she hadn't been fixated on his mouth, wondering how it might feel to have those lips on her—...well, anywhere on her.
She nodded, took another gulp of tea because her throat had gone dry, then said, “I'll tell you all about Mark Halestrom ... if you'll help me look into the past again."
"How?"
"I just need to hold your hand.” She shrugged. “That's it."
After only a split-second of hesitation, he agreed. “Deal."
She almost choked on her iced tea. “Really?"
"Really.” His grin broadened, his eyes twinkled. “But you tell me about Mark first."
"Fine, then.” She eased onto the loveseat then drew in her feet, sitting cross-legged. He finished his tea, set the glass on the table, and straightened his own legs in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Arms folded over his chest, he looked comfortable.
"Was Mark your father's brother?” she ventured to ask.
He didn't reply verbally, only nodded his head, the hint of a patient, understanding smile curling the corners of his mouth.
She cleared her throat, her heart beating in flutters. “I've never discussed this with ... someone I barely know before."
"Bianca, we're off the record.” The reminder was Luke's promise to her, and he delivered it with a kind, encouraging tone.
A smile wavered over her lips. “I appreciate that.” She lifted the iced tea, took a long, pensive gulp, then set it down on the coffee table. Finding his patient, attentive gaze, she began.
"My mother believed that my biological father killed Mark Halestrom."
His eyes grew wide, then his brows pulled together. After studying her a moment, he dipped his chin, and asked, “Really?"
Bianca nodded. “Yes. Really.” She fingered the frayed denim where her shorts stopped mid-thigh. “His name was Clark Manning. My mother was with him for six months until he learned of the curse then left her. She discovered she was pregnant with me a few weeks later."
Bianca clasped her hands on her lap, trying not to wring them, even if talking about this with Luke was mighty unnerving. When she looked up, his tender, supportive gaze helped put her at ease.
"She met Mark a few months after Clark Manning left her."
A familiar bittersweet ache swelled in her throat. She loved and missed Mother so much, her heart grieving for the woman who had known no other option but to run away from her pain.
Bianca managed a strained smile for Luke. It came with unanticipated tears that stung the backs of her eyes. “Your uncle Mark was a wonderful man. He cherished my mother and the child she was carrying. He loved her so much..."
It seemed foolish to cry over what had happened so long ago. Nevertheless her voice broke with tears. She swallowed them back, fighting hard not to weep in front of Luke.
Bianca knew he would never understand that Celia's curse had altered the fate of all Honeywell women for centuries after the hanging. How it was virtually impossible to find a man who could see past the curse. A man who could love without fear.
Mark Halestrom had loved without fear.
"He was a kind man, Luke. Strong. Loving.” She hesitated, brought stinging eyes to the ceiling, blinking fast. “Mark didn't care about the curse. He wanted to marry my mother, to help her raise the child she was carrying.” With a hand on her chest, one tear escaped to trickle down her cheek. “Me."
She brushed the tear away, instantly annoyed with herself for not doing a better job of holding it together. Luke set his feet on the floor, leaned over his thighs, reached for her hand and clasped it. “Are you okay?"
She laughed, rolled her eyes, blinked again, and breathed. “Yes. This is silly. I don't know why I'm getting so emotional.” Bianca glanced at their linked hands. Her throat ached, but she whispered a grateful, “Thank you."
His expression was reflective, and he gave her hand a squeeze. “It's okay."
Then Luke's voice faded. Became distant. Hazy.
A flash of bright light stole the present, replacing it with skewed, undecipherable images. There was dizziness, nausea, breathlessness, and the roar of blood in her ears.
Then she was back at the hanging tree.
Bianca felt the rope cut into her skin. She smelled the horses. Sensed her own rising panic and realized she was about to die.
The crowd murmured prayers, loud and in unison, until the sound grew and became deafening. A horse whinnied, skittish, wanting to run. The preacher lifted his hands to the sky and asked God's forgiveness for the witch. In the tree overhead, a large black crow with a watchful eye sang caw-caw as if it were a eulogy.
Young girls in the front row moaned, shrieked, sobbed, held their sides, and acted possessed, if not ill. Women dabbed their eyes, looking somber and ashen. Men held their hats, heads dipped low, avoiding eye contact with the witch.
Not all of them were remorseful over what was taking place. Many of the faces held a bitter gleam of satisfaction. It was a simple matter to accuse a woman of witchcraft and see her properly punished. Even an innocent woman. It was a disgustingly easy way to rid oneself of someone who had become more of a burden than a blessing.
Liam Halestrom still wore his hat. He had not removed it in respect. She knew him at once, felt the strong pull of love and hatred in her heart. Beside him was his wife Rebecca, deep in solemn prayer—then she lifted her gaze. Fearlessly she locked eyes with the witch, pain and loathing narrowing her glare.
The boy standing by Rebecca was no more than five years old. Eyes the color of honey watched with interest and compassion, not fear. Dark hair poked out from beneath his hat and his hands fisted in his mother's skirts. Bianca felt his sadness, but no hatred, and knew he had an understanding wise beyond his years.
He was different. She didn't know why, but could sense it. He stood with the Halestroms, though not quite fitting exactly. This difference, she realized, would matter. It was significant. It would change things. She wasn't sure how or when, but felt, to her very core, that it was essential.
Holding the gaze of her lover, she recited, in a voice not her own,
"As thee has turned me toward this tree,
This curse shall live with yours times three.
For your sons, then theirs to come,
Every descendent, every one,
Shall also love one of my kind.
Protected are those who share your blood with mine.
Love will they be powerless to fight,
But this love shall be their plight.
For each witch will turn on he,
Bring him hell on earth will she.
When love blinds him, death he'll see.
As I say, so mote it be."
There was pain, sharp and biting, until numbness crept in, slow but merciful. Then ... thick, inky darkness.
Chapter Nine
What the hell was happening?
Luke panicked, the blood roaring through his veins turning cold.
And what was she saying? This curse shall live with yours times three? When love blinds him, death he'll see?
He had Bianca by the shoulders, giving her a good shake. Her name sprang from his lips, over and over, sounding frenzied and hoarse.
Slowly she came out of it, watching him with eyes that were glazed and disoriented. Her mouth was dry, her face pallid. Still gripping her shoulders, Luke realized she was limp, drained, and it frightened him.
&
nbsp; She brought a hand to her forehead, her voice haggard. “That was ... really weird..."
"Water?” His one word question was saturated with relief.
She shook her head, winced, then stopped the motion, as if every tiny move brought excruciating pain.
"What the hell's going on, Bianca?” he barked, his fear completely unmasked and his hands tight on her shoulders.
Her eyes narrowed sharply. “Luke ... that hurts."
"I'm sorry.” He let go, dragging shaky fingers through his hair. “I just—you—well—you scared me half to death. What happened?"
She managed a tense but understanding smile. “I saw the past. Again.” Massaging her temples, she moaned. “Ouch. Headache. Aspirin."
"Where?"
"Bathroom.” Absently, she waved a finger in the general direction.
Luke ransacked the medicine cabinet, found the bottle of aspirin, fetched a glass of water, and returned. Sliding into the chair across from her, his heart raced.
She popped the pills into her mouth, sipped the water, tossed her head back to choke them down, then drew a deep breath. “Thanks."
"I want to know what just happened here, Bianca, because, to tell you the truth, you scared the living hell out of me."
Her smile was weak but plainly meant to put him at ease. She took another sip of water, cleared her throat, then explained. “I was back at the hanging tree.” When he opened his mouth, she lifted a hand and a brow to stop him. “Just hear me out before you start in with your glib denials."
He sat back into his chair, watching her intently.
She swallowed hard and swiped at her perspiring forehead with the back of her hand. “I think I'm on the brink of discovering something new about Celia's hanging."
Luke looked a little pale and Bianca instantly felt sorry for him. He'd come all the way from New York to prove the Honeywell curse didn't exist. Now he was about to get more than he bargained for.
"You look a little peaked,” she told him, worried.
"I'm not feeling so hot.” His voice was strained. He shoved to his feet, one hand over his abdomen. She watched him pace her den.
"Luke, did you see anything? When our hands were—?"
"No,” he interrupted, adamantly shaking his head.
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