Bewitching the Bachelor

by Suzanne Marie Calvin

Of all the crazy, foolish times to fall in love...

  "Here it is.” Her voice hummed into his thoughts and brought him back to earth. To reality.

  To Liam's suicide note.

  Bianca sat next to him on the bed, her white satin robe half-fastened. Opening the small wooden box she had pulled from her dresser, she reached inside and brought out a yellowed parchment scroll.

  Slowly she unrolled the fragile thing. In awe, Luke realized that the little piece of history she held in her hands was still in mint condition, considering it was over three hundred years old.

  "How in the world has this managed not to disintegrate?” He took the scroll with a timid, cautious hand.

  She winked, her smile soft and secretive. “Magic."

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Hell, at this point, I'll believe anything.” With care he held the paper's edges, straightening them so that he could read the words. His heartbeat thrummed arduously at his temples. “Wow.” Peering at her with a skeptical eye he asked, “Are you sure it's the genuine article? The real deal?"

  She angled her head, arching a brow, her lovely mouth twisted in a disapproving scowl.

  He bit back a nervous chuckle. “Okay, okay. I'll take your word for it."

  There was no point in doubting her. She wouldn't lie about Liam's suicide note. Besides, if he'd learned anything about Bianca, it was that her sincerity ran deep. Luke could trust her.

  Aloud, he read,

  Dear Rebecca,

  I cannot live this lie any longer.

  Yours eternally,

  Liam.

  He met Bianca's gaze, incapable of hiding his disappointment. “That's it?"

  "Well what would you have said?” she countered with a shrug.

  Without pause he replied, “I wouldn't have killed myself."

  A thoughtful smile curved her lips. “Then I guess that's the difference between you and Liam."

  He lifted a brow. “The only one?"

  Laughing, she pressed her shoulder against his. “Of course not.” Pointing to the scroll, she encouraged him to look again. “Read the curse."

  He skimmed over the words. “Can you translate?"

  "Sure. What don't you understand?” She squinted at the faded, nearly illegible writing.

  Quietly he read,

  "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—"

  The hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He stopped and cleared his throat.

  "Are you okay?” She watched him closely, her eyes dark with worry. “Luke, if this is too much—"

  "No.” He shook his head firmly. “I have to know."

  Bianca laid a hand on his forearm, her smile reassuring. Her touch was so tender and affectionate it made his chest ache. He cleared his throat again. “'One of my kind.’ What does that mean?"

  "A witch,” Bianca responded, adding without hesitation, “Not necessarily a Honeywell."

  "This doesn't say for sure.” There was a tremor in his voice and blood pumped like ice water through his veins.

  "I know,” she admitted reluctantly. “But if love with Honeywells killed Halestrom men, Celia would have cursed her own descendents.” Pausing, she drew her legs in, bending at the knee, sitting on her ankles. Eagerly she explained. “A very important part of the Witch's Rede, the ethical law we follow, says ‘An’ it harm none, do what thou will.’ That means do what you will, but harm no one in the process, which includes taking someone's free will. If Halestrom men could die from loving Honeywell women, that would mean Celia's curse took free will from her descendents, by placing the burden of murder on us."

  He frowned. “And you think Celia considered this?” he asked dubiously. “I mean, in the heat of the moment and all that?"

  She hesitated, then conceded, “I don't know. I mean, I find it difficult to believe she wouldn't have considered it."

  "I think you're giving her too much credit.” His tone was firm but kind. “You say ‘harm none'. Yet this curse is very harmful."

  Her smile was gentle with understanding but his blood still felt cold. “Luke, she was at the hanging tree, about to die. I don't know if she was thinking about her punishment in the afterlife.” His brows furrowed. “Dying didn't let her off the hook. The harm she's caused is hers to bear eternally, until she somehow rights her wrongs."

  "You're talking about reincarnation?"

  She tilted her head to one side. “I know, this is all too confusing."

  He wagged his head. “I'm just not sure what I believe and what I don't anymore.” His delayed smile was apologetic. “For me, buying into reincarnation is quite a stretch."

  "I understand.” She gave him a whole-hearted nod. “But you don't have to buy into it, Luke. You just have to believe that Celia did. And because of her mistake it could take many, many lifetimes before her lesson is learned."

  He studied her, still skeptical.

  She sighed. “Luke, I just believe in my heart that Celia wouldn't have made her descendents endure the burden of this curse. Indirectly, she put that burden on other witches. For that, Celia will pay.” She lowered her eyes. “But I've believed for so long that a Honeywell witch could never kill a Halestrom man. I just don't think I could bear discovering I've been wrong all this time."

  He swallowed hard, not sure what to believe, only wanting the truth and the certainty that would come with it. “This here... ‘Protected are those who share your blood with mine.’ What does that mean?"

  "Remember that Celia and Liam had a child together.” She raised a brow, watching him as her words sank in. “She was protecting her bloodline. Protecting me."

  "I get it.” He nodded, pressing on. “'Love will they be powerless to fight, but this love shall be their plight.'” Swallowing hard, he pondered those words knowing, as of late, he'd felt powerless himself. Heaving a sigh he finished, “'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.'” Once he was able to get over the sensation of being kicked in the stomach, he exhaled with an astounded, “Wow."

  "Packs a punch, doesn't it?"

  You have no idea, he thought to himself, scraping fingers over his scalp. Something curdled in his gut. When he found his voice again he told her, “I'd like to write these words down. May I?"

  She nodded agreeably. “Of course.” Sliding off the bed, Bianca fastened her robe. “I'll pour us some wine.” With a wave of her hand she added, “Paper and pens are in the nightstand."

  He watched her sashay out the door and was relieved she hadn't detected his discomfort. Discomfort nothing. Celia's words had scared the hell out of him. He and Bianca had to find a way to end this damned curse, and soon. Or Luke was going die of whatever people died from when they were scared to death.

  Still distracted by what he'd just read, he tugged open the drawer to Bianca's nightstand. Reaching a hand in he rustled around for a pen and some paper.

  What he pulled out was neither. It was a small stuffed figure. A voodoo doll, he suspected, based on his limited knowledge of what that was.

  He stared at it, baffled, turning the doll over in his hands. When he noticed the poppet was wearing a tiny press pass that bore his name, mixed feelings surged through him. He sat there frozen as confusion became disbelief. Then anger.

  Blood roared in his ears and Luke felt the walls close in on him. He couldn't breathe. His heart beat everywhere, all at once, pumping blood that was scorching like liquid fire.

  "Luke..."

  When Bianca spoke his name, his stomach pitched.

  She stood there, frozen and pale, clutching a glass of red wine in each shaky hand. Fury swept through him hot and hard like nothing he'd ever before experienced. He'd trusted. She'd betrayed. For Luke it was that simple, that black and white.

&nb
sp; He held up the doll. Between clenched teeth he ground out, “You want to tell me again about how you would never take someone's free will?"

  She opened her mouth then clamped it shut, the color seeping back into her cheeks until they were a liar's shade of red.

  It took incredible strength to keep from flying off the bed, taking her by the shoulders, and shaking the life out of her. The pain of her deception wrapped icy fingers around his heart and squeezed ruthlessly. Her silence made him angrier. His eyes burned holes through her as he demanded in a harsh, cold tone, “You'd better say something, Bianca, because I'm about to lose it. What the hell is this?” He gave the doll a hard shake.

  Her hands trembled and red wine sloshed over the edges of each glass. Slowly she walked to her dresser and set the goblets down. Then she turned to face him. When her gaze fell, she nervously fidgeted with the sash on her robe and Luke felt his heart sink deeper into the pit of his stomach. “Luke, I'm not sure what you thi—"

  "Bianca!” he interrupted in a terse tone. “Look at me."

  With some hesitation she lifted her gaze. Her cheeks were crimson, her lips white. Tears shimmered on her eyelids and he could see her chest rise and fall with every ragged breath.

  He knew these signs. Reporters learned to read body language. Her reluctant eye contact, those red cheeks, the jagged breathing were all signs that added up to a woman riddled with guilt.

  He had believed her. He'd fallen for the whole entire thing. Luke had been as half-witted as everyone else.

  "Before you spin some elaborate explanation, let me save you the trouble.” He gave the poppet in his clenched fist another furious shake. “I know what this is, Bianca, I'm not an idiot."

  "Luke—” She said his name like a gasp for air. “I don't know exactly what you're thinking, but whatever it is, you're wrong."

  He eyed the doll in his fist. “This is a voodoo doll, isn't it?” His voice was contemptuous, his stare accusatory.

  "I'd rather call it a poppet."

  "You can call it a toaster for all I care, Bianca. I know what—who—it represents.” He jerked himself off the bed, clad only in a pair of boxers, and took a step toward her. Waving the doll erratically he demanded, “Why did you make this?"

  She lifted a brow, her jaw dropped. “You assume I made it?"

  He pointed in the direction of her night table, every muscle in his body taut with rage. “It was in your drawer, was it not?” His heartbeat pulsed at his temples, giving him one hell of a headache.

  It didn't surprise him when she stopped cowering, instead angling her chin with determination as she squared her shoulders and met his gaze coolly. In an even, almost believable tone she replied, “Luke, I don't practice black magic. I didn't make that poppet. Fallon did, as a joke. I just tossed it into my nightstand and haven't thought about it since."

  He shook his head, lifted his hands, and narrowed his eyes that stung with frustration and despair. “I don't want to hear this,” he stated in a dull tone. “I've heard enough stories, Bianca. There's only one reason you would have this—this—thing.” He wagged it in front of her face again, his rage like a volcano on the verge of erupting.

  She flinched and stepped back. In a small voice she managed to say, “You're wrong.” She shook her head, her eyes dark and panicked. “This is crazy. Seeing Liam's note ... the curse ... you're frightened ... I understand...” Her voice cracked. “Luke, you're so mistaken."

  He shook his head vehemently. His throat ached, the agony so unbearable he could hardly speak. Nevertheless he forced himself to say the words he knew would make his point clear. “The only mistake I made was trusting you, Bianca."

  Bianca fell back against her dresser, feeling as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. Her head reeled and nausea hit, a sharp bite of pain. Luke's words cut her to the quick. The chill in his tone was like a bucket of ice water over her head. Snapping out of her temporary daze inflicted by his accusations, Bianca struggled to regain her composure. Defiance and indignation flooded her veins with heat.

  "Why do you think I have the poppet, Luke?” she asked over the exasperation searing a path up her throat.

  He turned away, pacing the floor, raking a free hand through his hair. “It all makes sense now. I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. It wasn't like me to—to—be so irrational.” He spun around, jabbing a reproachful finger in her direction. “You cast a spell on me."

  The suggestion was ludicrous, of course. And under different circumstances Bianca might have laughed. Instead, the harsh lines in his face, the steadfast reprehension in his tone had her reacting with shock and disappointment.

  "A spell?” she repeated in a breathy, faltering voice.

  His nod was eager, his eyes wild. “A spell. You seduced me."

  She gasped, horrified. Her face fell and she eyed him with outrage and disbelief. “I seduced you?” The words, strangled and quavering, squeezed past her tight throat. “Are you insane?"

  Luke glanced at the poppet in his hand then shook his head. “No. I'm not."

  Tears, hot and painful, sprang to her eyes. Her tone was thick with the premonition of a good, long cry. “You arrogant, self-satisfying son-of-a—"

  His fierce glare stifled the end of her insult. Bianca looked away, blinking like mad to dissuade her tears. Once poised enough to reply, she flatly stated, “I didn't cast a spell on you, Luke."

  "You're lying. There's no other explanation."

  "No other explanation for what?” she prompted, folding her arms across her chest and turning back to study him with a critical eye.

  "Never mind.” His tone was softer but not kinder. It smoldered like charcoal waiting for another douse of lighter fluid. “It doesn't matter."

  "No!” Bianca shook her head with angry enthusiasm. “You can't accuse me of something like this without backing it up with reasons.” She glowered at him. Impatience was sparking her temper and wearing her self-control thin.

  Holding the doll at eye level, he insisted in a firm, convinced tone, “You used this to cast a love spell on me."

  She sucked in a sharp breath, momentarily speechless.

  Eyes boring into hers, he reluctantly admitted, “I just haven't figured out why yet. Maybe—” He looked away, clearly formulating his next erroneous accusation. “Maybe to lure me in so that I'd die from that damned curse of yours."

  "That curse isn't mine!” she cried bitterly. “This is madness!” In one powerful surge of emotion, Bianca resented Luke, damned Celia, and hated who she was, perhaps more than she ever had before. “I don't want anything to do with that curse!” Bianca shrieked, every inch of her rigid with fury. “I never have. I've spent most of my life trying to put an end to it, Luke Hale, so don't you ever—"

  She waved a finger, felt her eyes find acute focus, and knew she was losing control. The air around them crackled, sizzling, electrically charged. She had to reel some of the energy back in or risked cutting it loose entirely, something she would only end up regretting later.

  Through her teeth, she ground out evenly, “Don't you ever accuse me of luring anyone into Celia's curse."

  He eyed her finger with an arched brow, one corner of his mouth tugged into a derisive sneer. “That finger of yours is a lethal weapon. You should put it away."

  She screeched, the frenzied sound like a banshee's wail. With a fierce wave of her hand, Bianca sent a bolt of energy that knocked the poppet from his fist. The doll launched across the room, into the trashcan, then burst into flame.

  Luke stood there visibly shaken, his eyes wide, his face pale.

  In an icy tone, she told him, “If that were really a voodoo doll, you'd be in the hot-seat right now, Luke Hale."

  Shaking almost uncontrollably, anger coursed through her, heady waves that made Bianca nauseous. She mourned her hasty, bitter action. The unleashed response to the agony of her breaking heart made her not much different from Celia, after all.

  Luke's eyes narrowed. His mouth was set in
a grim line of contempt. A muscle flexed in his jaw and he looked at her as if he didn't know her at all. As though he feared her. Hated her. Judged her. With one cruel, hostile stare, Luke had Bianca emotionally tied to a hanging tree.

  Icy darkness replaced her outrage, overwhelming her with a frigid shudder that was painful and lonely. “Go away, Luke.” Her voice was hoarse, her words tired, beaten. “Go away and don't come back. You're no different than the others. I just wish I'd seen it before—"

  Before I gave my heart to you.

  She smothered those last words where they throbbed and ached between her chest and throat.

  His eyes were shadowed with the pain of what he wrongly presumed was her deceit. “I trusted you."

  "And I trusted you.” A single weighty tear seared a path down her cheek. “I guess you weren't the only one under a spell."

  While he dressed she looked away, swiping the tear from her cheek. A fist-sized lump swelled and pulsed in her throat. She shut her eyes tight, wishing like mad that he would hurry and leave.

  When he stopped right beside her, his virile, mind-reeling fragrance filled her senses with the aroma that had been wrapped around her only an hour before. Bianca choked back painful sobs that jarred her insides.

  He took her wrist, pressing the black agate into her palm. “I think you need this more than I do.” Then he turned and walked through her bedroom door.

  Her question trembled with sadness and regret. “What do I need protection from?” she called after him.

  "Yourself,” was Luke's bland reply, as he walked through her front door and out of her life.

  As if he had nothing at all to lose.

  * * * *

  Luke was going back to New York. He would pack what little he'd brought with him on this road trip and just leave. It didn't matter that it was midnight. The fact was he could hardly wait to get home and put the whole sordid ordeal behind him.

  But damn it—His chest was heavy. His heart ached like a bad tooth with every dull throb.

  Bianca Honeywell had taken him for some kind of blithering idiot. He should have known better. He was a reporter, for crying out loud. For Luke, sniffing things out was instinctive.