Bewitching the Bachelor

by Suzanne Marie Calvin

  "Yes...now.” Her eyes were unfocused, her pulse thrumming wildly.

  The salacious smile that curled his mouth, reaching up to twinkle in his eyes, reassured Bianca that he wasn't through torturing her yet. He tracked his tongue up over her hip, stopping to place random kisses. One on her abdomen. Another below the curve of her breast. His mouth turned her body to half ice and half flame, until the room spun around her. She was dizzy, desire so out of control, there wasn't a single rational thought in her head.

  "Bianca.” He breathed into her ear. “You want this?"

  "Yes,” she gasped. All of her energy was poured into clinging to the side of the cliff he dangled her from.

  "Good.” He smiled, his voice thick and lusty. “So do I."

  Gently, he entered her and, with his first thrust, she was unleashed. Wrapping her legs around him, she buried him deeper, enjoying his groans of satisfaction, the way his hips rocked steadily, rhythmically, as he grew harder inside of her.

  He waited for Bianca, coaxed her to completion with tender words, urgent caresses, and kisses that took her to a place where she felt safe, whole and complete. As the sensations built and swirled inside of her, she shut her eyes tight, tears squeezing past her closed lids. Again she reminded herself this was a gift. Her heart's desire, even if it wouldn't last forever. She would keep it, a precious memory, locked deep inside of her. Every Honeywell woman had a secret just like this one.

  As love flowed through her like warm honey, Bianca cried out, her very core erupting in powerful surges of pleasure. She shattered into a million glowing stars, waves of ecstasy pulsing through her. Clutching Luke, she buried her face into his neck, murmuring his name, as his body shuddered against hers, while he found his release.

  Satiated, she melted against him and the world was filled with Luke. Bianca knew then that she'd rather die than never know this rapture.

  Chapter Twelve

  To hell with hanging. Cabot Halestrom would burn the witch.

  He would come in the night, while she slept, and pour a ring of gasoline around her house. Then he'd light a match and watch the whole thing go up in flames, burning her alive inside.

  Once she was dead, he'd fly to England. Maybe he'd kill her mother the same way.

  He rented a car in a small Arkansas town—a crappy little sedan he had to scrunch himself into just to fit. They didn't have a rental car to fit a person his height and it pissed him off.

  He decided to exchange it when he got to Louisville, Kentucky, sure that any rental place there would have a better selection. Like a pick-up truck. Or an SUV. Besides he needed to cover his tracks and that was easier if he changed cars often. People might remember the tall guy with the full beard and dark mole, but he'd be harder to track down if he changed vehicles frequently.

  By his calculations he could make it to Connecticut in under two days, if he didn't stop much, ate fast food on the go, peed on the side of the road, and overdosed on caffeine.

  He chain-smoked menthol cigarettes, planning his vengeance and dreaming of victory.

  * * * *

  Bianca lay on her back, the outline of her frame carved into Luke's. Her head was nestled in the crook of his arm, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.

  Luke held her hand, extended in front of them, an arm's length away, and traced the lines in her palm with the tip of his index finger.

  "Hard to believe all of these creases mean something,” he murmured softly in her ear.

  An unconscious smile curved her lips. “My grandmother taught me to read palms. She was so good at it. She knew someone's character at a glance, just by the shape of their hand.” When he scraped a finger across the center of her palm, Bianca giggled. “I'm ticklish there."

  Seductively, he teased, “I'll have to remember that,” and kissed the top of her head. “So your grandmother read palms?"

  "Oh, yes. For years and years people came to her for readings.” Her heart swelled with happy memories. “Gran was a character. She'd dress like a gypsy, big hoop earrings and scarves, the works. She loved drama. But it never overshadowed her gifts. She was strong and wise. A day never went by when she wasn't thankful for what she had."

  "She sounds ... a lot like you."

  It was a compliment, and Luke's words sounded so sincere they stroked Bianca someplace deep inside.

  "That's such a nice thing to say.” She smiled, touching her lips to his. Tiny flutters whispered in her belly when he deepened their kiss, savoring every stroke of the tongue. She'd never known such sweet seduction.

  With a scrumptious moan he pulled away, grinning, then asked, “What did your mother do?"

  "For a living?” Breathing deeply, she tried to set aside the airy feeling his kiss had left her with, to focus on his question. “My mother's career choice was sinfully normal.” Bianca's smile was soft and reflective, her mind sifting through memories that seemed a lifetime away. “Mother was a dressmaker. She sold original designs at her little boutique in town. People came from everywhere to buy them."

  Heavens ... She missed Mother. Her quiet, loving smile. Her wit and wisdom. Her touch. How she instinctively heard what Bianca sometimes couldn't say, the way mothers often did.

  "I remember sitting up in the attic, where she sewed. Watching her dress her mannequins in the most beautiful gowns I'd ever seen. We'd talk for hours ... about nothing at all.” Her tone was distant and melancholy. “I never realized how much I'd miss those conversations."

  He wrapped his arms around her so naturally, almost instinctively, that Bianca had to swallow a huge lump of emotion before she could continue.

  "'Once Upon a Time.’ That was the name of her boutique. It's the dry cleaners now.” She angled her head, studying his attentive expression. He was a great listener. Most men weren't. She wondered if it was just good reporting skills or if Luke was really made that way. “What did your parents do, Luke?” She loved saying his name. The way it rolled off her tongue made her heart turn over.

  He entwined his fingers with hers then brought their clasped hands to rest on her abdomen. “My mother was a schoolteacher.” He sounded like a doting son. “Third grade. She was great. The kids loved her.” He cleared his throat, his voice coarse. “She died of cancer."

  "I'm sorry.” Bianca kissed his chest then pressed her cheek there. “She must have touched so many lives."

  He sighed quietly. “She was inspiring. It's no wonder my dad fell in love with her.” He kissed the top of Bianca's head again, then stroked it with his chin. “Dad was an architect."

  "No writers in your family?"

  A quiet chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “My mom wrote. Articles and short stories. And my dad just liked to read. I remember brainstorming story ideas with him.” His fond smile dulled, turning almost cold. “He died in a car wreck."

  "Oh, Luke ... I'm sorry.” She reached up, with her free hand to stroke the side of his face.

  "My mother wasn't a witch, you know."

  Bianca bit her lower lip, not sure what to say, relieved when he continued.

  "That and the fact that my parents had a faithful, loving marriage are reasons why I never believed in the curse.” It was a simple, uncomplicated testimony.

  Bianca felt sorry for him. There was nothing more disheartening than the discovery that what once made sense suddenly didn't.

  He sighed. “Still, my father, grandpa and great-grandfather all died young and unexpectedly.” When he shifted against her, Bianca could feel his confusion and uneasiness. “A curse... Well, that just never made sense to me. But their deaths never made sense either.” His sigh was haggard. “Now, nothing makes sense at all."

  In his words she sensed his turmoil. Bianca hated having no explanations or answers for him. The silence was unbearable. “I'm not sure what to say,” she admitted. “Except that I'm so sorry."

  "Bianca.” He spoke her name tentatively, pulling her closer. “You don't have to say anything. And it isn't your fault."

  She car
essed his arm, her smile grateful. Still, it was hard not to feel a twinge of guilt. After all, her ancestor's curse may have killed Luke's father and others in his family.

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “So why didn't your mother read palms for a living?"

  "Mother didn't use her gifts much. She just wanted to blend in. Be normal.” Bianca shook her head with the dull realization of what no Honeywell had the right to expect. Not since 1695, anyway. “We aren't meant to blend in."

  "You blend in more than you suspect,” he said gently with a measure of certainty. “I've interviewed a lot of folks here. One thing has been clear. People in this town depend on you.” His eyes were tender and earnest. They filled her with contentment.

  Suddenly the rest of the world seemed unimportant. “When you say that, I almost believe you,” she half-joked, rubbing noses with him.

  His lips caught her mouth impulsively. Then he laughed. “Without you, there'd be no Tree Day. No Fourth of July ice cream socials. You have a place in this town.” Luke's hand stroked her bare back, sending a thrill racing along her spine. She loved his touch. Persuasive but gentle, it spread instant heat through her.

  "Oh, Luke,” she sighed with an odd mix of joy and sadness. “The Honeywells have been blamed for nearly everything that goes wrong. But when people want to attain the unattainable, they call me.” She nuzzled up to him, kissed his neck, enjoying the flavor and fragrance. Feeling safe. Safe enough to open up to him. “I'm not sure it'll ever change. The same people who come to the ice cream socials each year are the ones who wag their fingers at me when the flu comes to town. Or when we get too much snow. Or too little rain."

  "They blame you for the flu?” In a quick attitude shift, he was clearly annoyed.

  With a secret smile she affectionately stroked his chest. He cared. It wasn't love, but it was a welcomed change from being feared, misunderstood or shunned.

  "Oh, I don't think people believe I go around casting spells at random,” she willingly admitted. “I think, in part, they will always be afraid. The age-old saying that people fear what they don't understand certainly hits the mark in this case."

  "That's...” His voice was a low, aggravated rumble. “...silly. That's what that is."

  She traced a finger from his forehead along the straight edge of his nose to his firm, sensual mouth, then his strong, angled chin. In the candlelight, his rugged features were dark and mysterious. Excitement stirred deep in her belly.

  "That's a remarkable observation, coming from a man who's been cursed by one of my ancestors."

  Playfully he dipped his chin then nibbled her finger. “It's not the same thing."

  "Well, good luck changing how people think, Luke.” She traced his lips over and over, wanting him again. Afraid it was a need that would never be satiated. “I've tried to influence archaic minds for years. It's a waste of time. I just want them to see I mean no harm.” She flattened her hand on his chest, feeling his bruised ribs. “Your ribs ... The bruising is almost gone. You heal quickly. It's been less than a week."

  He breathed deeply. “Yes. They're much better.” His voice was distant, as if he were reflecting on other matters.

  Stroking the corded muscles of his abdomen, Bianca enjoyed how his breathing grew ragged and his stomach shivered in response to her touch.

  "Bianca..."

  "Yes?” She closed her eyes, listening to the deep timbre of his voice, pretending eternity began then.

  "I want you to know that when I write this article, I plan to tell the truth. About everything."

  She stiffened and braced herself. Her heart dipped. “Why are you telling me this now?” She brought curious eyes to meet his dusky, unwavering gaze.

  "I want you to know that I'm not here, being with you this way, because I intend to hurt you.” He stroked fingers through her hair, his gaze probing, searching perhaps for some indication that she believed him.

  Bianca lowered her eyes. Her voice was unsteady, a dead giveaway of her vulnerability. “Sometimes what you intend and what actually happens are two different things."

  "Sometimes. But not this time,” he told her firmly. “Bianca, look at me."

  Slowly she lifted her eyes, her cheeks hot as she rambled, “Luke, I knew when I made love with you tonight that I was taking a gamble. So please don't feel as if you need to explain or apologize or—"

  He put a finger over her lips and gave her a patient smile. “You're not hearing me."

  Bianca pushed away, angled her body to face him and propped herself on an elbow. Luke did the same and, when their eyes met, she realized something about him was different. There was no derision or cynicism, only sincerity and understanding. Concern had his brow furrowed. Determination squared his jaw. An understanding smile tugged at the mouth she was dying to kiss again. Bianca released the breath she'd been holding and the knots in her belly untangled a little.

  "When this article is done, I think you'll be pleased.” As if gathering his thoughts, he dropped his gaze. When he looked at her again, it was with determination. “Bianca, people need to know that witches aren't green and warty. That they don't wear pointed hats and ride on broomsticks.” His boyish grin turned her heart over, and he raked a hand through his hair, she thought, self-consciously. He was, without a doubt, absolutely charming. “I think people need to understand so that they aren't afraid anymore. I'd like to think my article can help with that.” He shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. His red cheeks were a telltale sign he was capable of modesty. “I don't know. Maybe I'm hoping for too much."

  She wanted to laugh and wanted to cry. But most of all Bianca wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him until he couldn't breathe.

  Worried brows pulled together over honey-brown eyes that had stolen her heart, perhaps days ago. “You're crying,” he muttered, immediately concerned. “Why are you crying? What did I—What did I say?"

  "Ugh ... these darn tears.” Bianca laughed, averted her eyes to the ceiling, and blinked like mad. “Oh, Luke, what you said was perfect.” Sniffling, she bit her lip, swallowed hard, then confessed, “You just made me realize something."

  He reached out and with a graze of his thumb brushed at a renegade tear that escaped to slide down her cheek.

  "What's funny about this whole thing,” she continued with a bittersweet smile, “is that, while you're afraid to hope for too much, I'd nearly given up hope altogether."

  "I understand,” he told her with a nod.

  "No ... I don't think you do.” She paused, deliberating over her next words. She willed them to sound as kind and sincere as she meant them. Embracing his gaze, she confessed, “I misjudged you, Luke."

  "Considering what you've been through—"

  She lifted a hand. “No. That was no excuse. You've told me from the beginning that you wanted to find the truth. I mistook that for the same song and dance every other reporter gave me in the past."

  Luke reached for her hand, clasped it, then entwined their fingers. The candid affection in his touch gave her the courage to continue.

  "Having reporters come through here, misconstruing the facts, wasn't the worst of it. There was this man ... He blew into town and I was stupid enough to believe him when he said that he—"

  She paused, struggling with the grapefruit-sized lump of humiliation and regret in her throat. Fresh tears stung her eyes and her cheeks burned. Still, she looked into Luke's eyes and said simply, “I'm not telling you this for pity. I just want you to understand why I judged you so harshly."

  His eyes darkened. “Bianca—"

  "Please,” she begged him, forcing back the tears. “I'm almost done.” With quick fingers she rubbed her eyes then continued. “He stayed for a while, then left suddenly, without even saying good-bye. A week later everything I'd told him was printed in a sleazy tabloid magazine."

  Luke clenched his jaw. There was no question—he was angry. His eyes narrowed, razor sharp. “Which magazine?” he demanded.

  She shook
her head. “It doesn't matter.” Everything in his expression said he disagreed. It was this, among other things, that made Bianca realize she could truly fall for this man. And hard. Drawing a deep breath, she switched gears. “Luke, you could lose your job over this article, you know."

  The harsh, malevolent lines in his face smoothed over, giving way to a slow, pensive nod. “I know.” He combed his fingers through his hair. She smiled when that wayward swath fell back into place over his forehead. “When I became a journalist it wasn't to report on the safe topics. It was to tell stories that have to be told. To make a difference.” His gaze hardened again. “Not like those stupid, sleazy tabloids."

  Her smile was spontaneous as she smoothed the hair from his forehead. “And you think this story has to be told?” She lifted both brows, searching his eyes.

  He held tight to her gaze. “Yes. I do. Don't you?"

  "I'm not sure, Luke. We're not talking about small town readership here. We're talking about the entire United States."

  He grinned. “The world. It's The World Today Magazine."

  "Aha.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Well, that makes me feel so much better."

  "I won't do this unless you're okay with it."

  With a dubious sideways glance she said, “I thought you had to submit this article."

  "Only because I don't have anything else."

  "Won't you get fired if you don't give them something?"

  He nodded. “I suppose."

  She arched a brow. “Is this a guilt trip?"

  His laugh was whole-hearted and he kissed the tip of her nose. “You're so ... amazing, Bianca.” He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath sweet on her lips.

  Bianca closed her eyes as emotion, warm and fluid, poured through her. Why hadn't she seen it coming sooner? Why hadn't she realized that she was falling in love with Luke Hale?