Bewitching the Bachelor

by Suzanne Marie Calvin

  "Oh.” She sighed, dismayed, and combed a hand through her hair. “Too bad. This might be easier to explain if you had."

  "Bianca...” He stopped pacing, his eyes dark and penetrating hers deeply and with some desperation. His forehead wrinkled and his mouth set in a thin, grim line that made her stomach shiver.

  "Yes?” she encouraged him breathlessly.

  "You really...see things? It's not just ... a game?"

  So, reality was setting in, was it? Finally! She smiled. “Yes, I see things. No games."

  Clearly it wasn't the reply he'd hoped for. He shook his head and crammed agitated fingers through his hair. “This isn't right. It's ... just not normal.” The hasty glance he cast in her direction was wild and unfocused. “I mean, this is stuff they put in fiction books. Stuff they make movies out of, right?” He turned, facing her, his tone sharp as a blade, as he demanded, “Right?"

  Her heart throbbed hard against her ribs. “What do you want me to say, Luke? For me, this is normal."

  "I hate to be the one to tell you this, Bianca, but this—” He waved his hands around zealously. “This is definitely not normal.” A brow curled over troubled eyes. “Understand?” Luke stopped pacing and flailing his arms. Though his voice was calmer, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “The candles. How did you do the candles?"

  "Luke...” She pressed her lips together, mustering as much tolerance and compassion as she could, while trying to still her own shaky nerves.

  In a lightning-fast motion, he wielded a finger at her. “Don't do that. Don't look at me like that."

  Bianca's heart lurched. “Like what?"

  "Like I'm some poor idiot.” He slapped his chest indignantly. “I'm the one who's normal here, Bianca."

  Striving to keep her patience, she reminded him, “Luke, you've got a three hundred year old curse hanging over your head. I think normal is a relative term."

  A muscle in his jaw flexed and the gleam in his eyes turned to razor sharp intensity. “I said I don't believe in that damned curse."

  She held his gaze for one long, deliberate moment, then sighed. “Let's be realistic. You need time to process this.” Time she could give him. However, Bianca drew the line at subjecting herself to implications that she was some sort of alien, misfit or pariah.

  "I don't need time.” Luke wagged his head decisively. He gestured toward the table. “I want to see the candles again.” He waved an agitated hand at her. “Now."

  Sighing, she pushed to her feet. “If you insist."

  "I insist."

  Bianca lifted a hand, focusing.

  "Wait!” His testy exclamation made her jump. “I'm not ready yet."

  Stifling a snippety retort, she dropped her hand, eyeing him with a wooden stare. He bumbled around the room, opening the curtains, showcasing a view of the angry, dark sky and jagged bolts of lightning. Grumbling, Luke shut the curtains, then went about flicking on every light in the den. Once he'd sufficiently achieved what bordered on center stage at a Broadway theatre during curtain call, he slid into a chair at the table.

  "Those lights are going to ruin the ambiance,” she joked with a grin.

  He arched a brow, his eyes lethally calm, and said nothing. Clamping his hands over the edge of the table, one on each side, Luke hunched over slightly, until his eyes were level with the candles. Then without so much as a glance at her, he said, “Okay, go ahead."

  It was difficult not to laugh. But she managed—for his sake. Bianca might have been perturbed if Luke Hale hadn't looked so adorable in his somber effort to catch whatever “trick” he thought she had up her sleeve.

  This would be the turning point. The night Luke would realize that magic—at least her magic—was as real as those sexy eyes of his.

  With little effort, she waved a hand. The candles flickered to life simultaneously.

  She'd learned to control fire, on this small level, at the age of five. Gran had taught her, regretting it later, when Bianca used the skill to re-light the candles on Mary Brady's birthday cake every time the mean-spirited, impolite child blew them out.

  Luke stared at the tapers, unblinking, what little color left in his face draining slowly. For good measure, Bianca nudged the yellow taper with her mind, coaxing it six inches, until it rested directly in front of him, a breath away. His knuckles, wrapped around the table's edge, whitened. Eyes wide, he gaped at the candle, his every ragged breath making the flame dance.

  "No ... tricks,” he murmured, glancing under the table. “No special effects...” He inspected each taper. Fisting the yellow candle, he blew it out, then ordered, “Do it again."

  She sighed wearily. “I'm getting bored, Luke.” She eyed the candle and made it spark to life without using her hand.

  "You didn't point at it this time,” he noted, his voice hollow and wavering.

  "I don't have to. Lifting a hand sometimes helps me focus."

  He watched the flame quiver, swallowing hard, then carefully stuffed the taper back into the wooden holder. “What else can you do?” he asked quietly, folding his hands on the tabletop, still eyeing the candles with a critical gaze. “Besides visions and candles."

  "A few things. I learn something new all the time."

  "You moved the candle. So you're telekinetic, too?"

  "Not the way my uncle was. It takes practice."

  He shifted his gaze toward her. “Can you walk through walls?"

  "I'm not a ghost, Luke."

  "I know you aren't, but I don't know much about what witches can or can't do. Are you a shape-shifter?"

  In spite of how grave his tone was, Bianca could barely keep the laughter from her voice. “No.” She folded her arms across her chest and squared her shoulders. “This feels like an interrogation. Were you involved in the Spanish Inquisition in a past life?"

  "Sorry.” His apology was more distracted than heartfelt. “Can you disappear?"

  "Only in the dark.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Luke, I can't walk on water or fly or control the elements. There's a long list of things I can't do. I have certain gifts, some stronger than others.” She approached him, her gut deflating when he moved away, his chair grating on the wood floor. She took the opposite side of the table, then leaned against the chair. “I'm lousy at levitation, in case you were about to ask."

  "Me, too.” Slight sarcasm, reinforced by a faint smirk.

  Nervously, she licked her dry lips. “I can heal. Small injuries and illnesses. People. Plants. Only minor things."

  "Like paper cuts?"

  A flash of annoyance zipped through her. “Luke, are you mocking me?"

  He sighed, dropped his head, holding it in his hands. Embedding fingers in his thick, dark hair, he admitted, in a broken voice, “I don't know."

  Tears pending, she told him, before she couldn't, “I don't particularly like being asked to perform, Luke. It took a lot for me to open myself up to you this way."

  He dropped his hands onto the table, dragging his gaze to hers. “Why did you?"

  Bianca looked away, jaw clenched, and pressed her eyes shut. Drawing a deep breath, she brought a more confident stare back to meet his. “Because I want you to believe me."

  He huffed in disbelief. “It's a lot to swallow."

  Gripping the back of the chair, she said simply, “I didn't ask to be this way. It's just who I am."

  "Are you telling me you can't just ignore it?"

  "Can you ignore the things you were born with? Your father's nose, your mother's eyes? You can change them, maybe, but they're still a part of you.” Her bottom lip wavered. Her courage didn't. “I have my mother's eyes and her gift of vision. My grandmother's temper and her gift of healing.” Bianca's throat ached. It hurt when this happened. After years of rejection, she should have developed thicker skin.

  For some crazy reason she hadn't yet figured out, Bianca cared what Luke Hale thought of her, and not just because he was a reporter for The World Today.

  "I spent years hating who
I was. Not only do I have these ... abilities, but I have this curse hanging over me that makes it a little difficult to...” Her voice quavered and heat flooded her cheeks. Thickly, she finished, “Let's just say it's not easy finding a man who wants to date a Honeywell seriously."

  Luke lifted his head. His eyes were empty, perhaps tired, the small creases in his face deeper, as if he'd aged years in the last ten minutes.

  "Ignoring who I am isn't the solution,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone she supported with a shrug, hoping nonchalance might ease the ache in her chest and throat. “I'll always be a Honeywell, just like you'll always be a Halestrom. You can change your last name, but blood is blood. Who we are can make us strong. Or it can kill us."

  Dropping her gaze, she stared at her hands, gripping the back of the chair. “I'll always be the woman people look at twice and wonder about. Is she or isn't she? Times have changed, but people are as suspicious as they were in Celia's day.” She shook her head. Tears stung her eyes, but she willed them back. There was pride to consider, after all. “If winters are too harsh, people still gossip that I had something to do with it. Some whisper and point. No one comes for a friendly visit and a cup of coffee. They come to ask if they'll win tomorrow's lottery. Or for love spells and good luck charms."

  When she lifted her gaze, Bianca found him studying her, not with malice, but with surprising benevolence. His gaze, warm with compassion, sent a thrill pulsing through her. Desire, hot and needy, coiled in her abdomen. The way he made her feel was exciting. And frightening.

  Bianca was an impetuous romantic, an unsafe combination considering her history with men. She couldn't let herself fall for just any guy who came along and showed her some tenderness and understanding, no matter how good it felt to have both.

  Clearing her throat, she wrenched her eyes from his. Finding a new focal point, she watched the flickers of light from the candle flames lick the surface of her crystal ball. “And there are some who come just for a good story."

  "Reporters,” he surmised in a dull tone.

  Her eyes had a will of their own. Disobediently, they settled a skeptical gaze on him. “Nearly all who came before you have taken my words and distorted them for a quick sale, Luke. Writing lies. Feeding ignorance and hate.” Her throat burned and her stomach twisted into tight knots that nearly caused her physical pain.

  "That's not why I'm here.” His tone was quiet but firm, his eyes sharp.

  Bianca could almost believe he was being sincere. Still, she arched a dubious brow. “I guess we'll see."

  Lightning flashed across the room, followed by thunder that rumbled beneath her feet, shaking the old house.

  They stared at each other, a silent war of wills that had Bianca's heart pounding against her ribs. Perspiration trickled over her brow and the knots in her belly tightened.

  Oh, heavens ... She was falling for the reporter.

  How? Wasn't he positively loathsome? Didn't he drive her insane with his glib retorts, his insinuations, his skepticism? In exasperation, she huffed a breath, breaking their deadlocked stare, to look away and collect her wits.

  "What did you really see tonight, Bianca?” he probed in a quiet, pensive tone. “When you held my hand. What was it?"

  "I'm not sure exactly,” she confessed, her pulse thrumming at her temples.

  "You're not sure exactly?” he repeated flatly. He threw up his hands in frustration. “Can't you do better than that?"

  Piqued, she glared at him. “It's not as easy as you think,” she snapped. “Imagine being plucked out of the twenty-first century and dropped into 1695. Then add a rope around your neck.” Her chest heaved with irritated gasps and she struggled to control her aggravation.

  "Fine.” He squirmed, then settled back, folding arms across his chest. “Can you tell me what happened?"

  She nodded and took a deep, calming breath that left her more composed, though her head still throbbed. “It was Celia's hanging again. This time, I saw a little boy standing beside Liam and Rebecca.” She rubbed her temples, closed her eyes, and tried to bring the images back. “Dark hair. Light brown eyes. He belonged to them, but was different.” She let her hands drop to her sides and opened her eyes.

  Luke watched her, brows creased. He looked tired and pale.

  She sighed, feeling exhaustion setting in. “I don't know why or how he's different. Only that he is."

  How could she make Luke understand? Most of what she had experienced was on an emotional level and nothing like concrete evidence. Exasperation turned her stomach sour.

  "Different how?” he probed. “Like evil? Like a witch?"

  She dropped her chin, studying him beneath furrowed brows. “I'm going to assume you didn't mean for the words ‘evil’ and ‘witch’ to sound as if they belong together."

  He swallowed. “I didn't."

  Bianca surveyed him critically, surprised when he appeared earnest.

  "He wasn't evil. Or a witch. It was ... just a sense of him not fitting.” With a hasty shake of her head, she reconsidered. “But he belongs.” Then she tossed up her hands in defeat. “I can't explain it. I'll have to go back again and—"

  "No!” he interjected definitively, wagging his head.

  "Excuse me?” She studied him, puzzled.

  He looked away, his cheeks ruddy, and stammered, “Well ... I mean ... Isn't it dangerous when you do that?"

  "I've never thought about it.” Her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. “Why? Are you concerned?"

  "Of course I am!” His face was red, his lips pale. “I don't want ... you know ... something to happen to you while I'm sitting here."

  "Be careful, Luke. Sentimental drivel like that is liable to make me swoon.” She fanned herself with a hand, grinning.

  One side of his mouth tugged at a smile, but he held tight to his somber expression. “I'm serious, Bianca."

  "We're fine. You know CPR, right?"

  "What?” Alarm flashed over his face, darkening his eyes.

  Her laughter was spontaneous. “You need to lighten up."

  He inspected the candles again, the flames high and flickering steadily, casting shadows on the walls. The incandescent light made his honey-brown eyes glow like amber stones. “I'm not exactly used to ... all this."

  "I know. It's a lot to swallow.” She inclined her head toward the kitchen. “I'm hungry. Let's have dinner, then we can talk some more."

  He raised a hand. “In a minute."

  "Okay...” She met his troubled expression, knowing he was too overwhelmed to seriously consider the invitation.

  "You never finished the story about your mother and Mark."

  She gave him a blank stare. “Luke, I'm starving and we've got about ten different subjects on the burner."

  He settled back into his seat, nodding. “Precisely why we should get this one out of the way right now."

  With a disgruntled pout, she yielded. “Fine.” Perhaps it was the least she could do after all she'd just put him through. “I forgot where we left off."

  He shrugged. “Just tell me why your mother thought Clark Manning did it."

  Lightning snapped like a camera flash, followed by another smack of thunder that made Bianca jump. She held to his patient, encouraging eyes and found comfort.

  "I recall my mother saying Clark Manning wanted to kill Mark,” she began, thoughtfully tilting her head to one side. “Granted, at the time, Mother suspected those were only idle threats made by an overly jealous man."

  Luke leaned forward, brows pulled together over eyes that were bewildered, as he reiterated, “Clark Manning said he wanted to kill Mark Halestrom?"

  "In so many words ... yes.” Bianca ran an index finger over the carved wood on the chair's backside. “Clark came back after my mother and Mark were engaged. When she told him that she no longer loved him, Clark was furious.” Bianca wrapped her arms around herself, pressing her stomach into the chair. “Clark found out Mother was pregnant. He didn't want his child raised
by another man, so he demanded she leave Mark. She, of course, refused."

  "Mark knew all of this?"

  Bianca nodded. “She warned Mark, but he thought she was overreacting."

  "The knife..."

  "Was her athame. Her witch's dagger.” With a wry half-smile, she realized, “You've done your research.” No reporter before him ever had, at least to that degree.

  His nod was slow, purposeful. “Why the athame?"

  She rubbed her arms. Retelling this story always made her feel cold to the bone. And her heart feel empty and sad. “I think he used it to punish my mother. As if killing the only man she ever really loved wasn't punishment enough.” She dropped her chin and pressed her eyes shut because they were stinging again. “Clark must have taken it while he was here. Mother didn't realize it was missing until it was too late."

  "Wow,” he gasped, falling back into the chair.

  Bianca looked away, blinked and swallowed hard. “Mother never forgave herself.” She turned back and embraced his gaze with eyes that were moist. “The curse didn't kill Mark. Not even indirectly."

  His brows knit together. “You can't be sure of that."

  It wasn't a willful disagreement; rather, she sensed, a desperate need for confirmation. Something clicked in her mind and put a catch in her heart.

  He played a good game, but, in reality, Luke feared the Honeywell curse as much as any Halestrom man did. He was just too proud—or too stubborn—to admit it.

  "My mother loved Mark Halestrom. She would never have killed him.” Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin and held fast to his gaze. “She even conjured a spell to protect him from the curse."

  "Well, it looks like it didn't work,” he blandly retorted, sarcasm mingling with the worry in his eyes making them dark, almost cold.

  A chill raced up her spine but she stood arrow straight and kept her determined stare on him. “Honeywell witches don't kill Halestrom men. That was never Celia's intent. Don't you think she could have killed Liam herself, if she'd wanted to?"

  "Indirectly, she did,” he maintained in a steady tone.

  Bianca shook her head vehemently. “No. Liam's guilt killed him. That and karma."