This was why he was a bachelor. Because of conniving, ruthless women like Bianca. Women who thought they could work their mojo on him then take over his life. There were “witchy” inclinations in every woman. Feminine wiles they used to beguile and seduce hapless, unassuming men.
Well, Luke Hale was smarter than that.
He took a corner a little too fast on his motorcycle. Adrenaline surged. His heart skipped, then pulsed at his temples, a reminder that he had one hell of a headache.
Unbelievable. That's what this was. Unbelievable that he could have fallen prey to a love spell. It certainly explained how a confirmed bachelor could have fallen head over heels in love. As if he'd done it before, when he never had.
Damn it!
He still couldn't believe Bianca made that poppet then used it to reel him in. Man, she was good.
She'd clearly hated him when he'd first come to town. It was odd that hatred could prompt a woman to cast a love spell on the very man she loathed.
...Wasn't it?
Unless, of course, as he'd considered before, she had planned to lure him in for the kill. Make him fall in love with her, so that he would die from the curse. A dead reporter couldn't do his job, right?
Revving the motor as he climbed a steep hill, Luke shouted a string of cuss words.
He was off. Way off. The theory was too much of a stretch. Luke knew he couldn't trust her, but Bianca wasn't a murderess. He didn't have to trust her to know that.
Besides, she'd approved of the article he was writing, so any motive she would have had for doing him in couldn't have been about the article.
He turned into the Clover Falls Inn parking lot, realizing there were too many holes in his rationale. When it came right down to it, he wasn't sure about anything. Except...
He was still in love with her.
Shouldn't the love spell be broken now? Or was this like the hangover after the binge? He dismounted his bike and yanked off his helmet. Frustrated, he finger-combed his hair back. Once he got home to New York, had some sleep and time to clear his head, he'd feel better. The spell would be gone, setting his heart and mind back to normal. All of this would be in the past.
He left the door of his room wide open and haphazardly tossed his things into his duffel bag, ignoring the persistent flash of the “message waiting” light on the telephone. It was probably Bianca and he'd already heard enough lies to last him a lifetime.
"'Scuse me, buddy."
The deep reverberating voice coming from the doorway startled Luke. Standing there was a man, tall and lanky with raven hair and a thick beard. A dark mole on his cheek stood out over and above his black facial hair.
Luke turned from his packing as the man apologized in a slow Southern drawl, “Sorry, man, didn't mean to scare ya."
With an avid shake of his head, Luke forced a smile, relieved when his heart started beating again. And in his chest rather than his throat, no less. “That's okay. I'm a little preoccupied."
The man eyed Luke's duffel bag. “On yer way out?"
"Checking out.” Luke nodded, looking from his nearly packed bag to the gentleman. “Can I help you?"
"I's wonderin’ if ya had change. For the vendin’ machine.” With a broad grin that revealed a serious underbite, he added, “I got a hankerin’ for a candy bar."
Absently Luke rummaged through his pockets. “I think so.” Pulling out a fistful of coins, he sauntered over to the stranger. “How much do you need?"
"Two bucks'll do me right fine, if ya can spare it.” The cowboy waved his two bills and they exchanged monies.
When Luke caught the man's dark eyes, a wave of familiarity snapped through him. Lifting a brow he inquired, “Do I know you?"
The man, who towered over him by a good five inches, shook his head. “Don't reckon so. ‘Less ya been to Texas."
Luke shrugged, shook his head, and set the notion aside, blaming it on Clover Falls. Everything was starting to give him the creeps in this godforsaken town. “Never have had the pleasure.” He shoved the bills into his pocket, keeping his tone light and casual. “You just look familiar, I suppose."
"Maybe I got that kinda face.” The man grinned, tipped back the brim of his hat, gave Luke a nod and said, “Thanks. Have a good night now, y'hear?"
As the man turned away, meandering along the walk toward the dim light of the boxy vending machines several doors down, Luke watched him go. “Right back at ya, pardner,” he muttered under his breath, the sensation of knowing the stranger still fresh enough to make the skin at the back of his neck tingle.
Luke grabbed his duffel bag and set a new personal record for packing. He couldn't wait to get back to New York. To normality. To sanity.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning Miles strolled through Bianca's kitchen door. “Good morning, sunshine,” he sang in a cheery tone. Seeing her, his face fell. “Oh, for heaven's sake, what happened?” he demanded, concern shadowing his eyes and putting a crease in his forehead.
Bianca sat at the dinette still clad in her robe, hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee, reflecting on the night before. He dropped into a chair beside her. Grabbing her coffee cup he set it on the table then took both of her hands in his.
With a quick once-over glance he decided, “You look like hell, B. You've been crying all night, haven't you?” Shaking his head, he clucked his tongue, eyes narrowing angrily. “It's Luke Hale, isn't it?"
She nodded, her lip trembling, fresh tears pooling in her eyes.
"What happened?” he demanded. Not waiting for a reply, he shook his head. “I knew it! I felt it last night. I almost called you.” He looked away, exhaling a long dramatic breath. “It was late. I didn't want to bother you, just in case my feeling was way off.” Fixing his eyes on her again he scolded, “You should've called me. I would've come."
She shook her head. “I wanted to be alone, Miles."
He arched a brow. “No one really wants to be alone, darling."
She pressed her lips together, raising moist eyes to the ceiling. With a bitter smirk she brushed fingertips over her cheeks. “You'd think I would be used to this by now."
Miles hesitated, then gaped at her, aghast and knowing. “Oh, God. You slept with him."
Bianca chewed her lower lip, nodding slowly.
"Oh, B, darling...” He threw his arms around her. “You know it's virtually impossible for you to do that without—"
"Falling in love?” she interjected. Her chest shivered with tears she tried swallowing back.
He shoved her away, holding her at arms’ length, hands on her shoulders. “What did the jackass do, Bianca? Do I need to have a serious talk with him?"
She shook her head vehemently, feeling the color drain from her cheeks. “Oh, heavens, Miles ... No. I don't think my self-esteem can take another beating."
He released her shoulders, fell back into his chair and surveyed her with a critical eye. “He doesn't deserve you.” Averting his gaze, she saw his jaw clench. Quietly he added, “And you don't deserve this."
Bianca lowered her head, heaviness centered in her chest. A hot agonizing tear slithered down each cheek. “It was different this time, Miles. How I felt. Everything. It was different.” Her heart convulsed, then pitched, bringing on fresh waves of agony. “This time ... it was real."
"Excuse me, Bianca, but every hurt you've ever had since I've known you has been very, very real.” His tone was biting, not directed at her, but for her. “You're generous and trusting. And that wall you keep putting up around you falls too easy.” He paused, then asked, “Where is he now?"
She angled her head and raised a brow. “What makes you think I would know?"
He dipped his chin, giving her a deadpan stare. “You have the gift of sight and you didn't use it?"
Her reply was as bland as the look she gave him. “You know better than to ask me that, Miles Frank."
"No one else plays by the rules, B. Why should you?” he countered. “Your ‘h
arm none’ ideals don't seem to be keeping you from harm."
"Miles, if this is your idea of a pep talk—"
He lifted both hands in an apology. “I'm sorry. What happened?"
She retrieved her coffee with a shaky hand, brought it to her lips, took a gulp of the bitter, tepid liquid and winced. “He found a poppet Fallon made. It was a joke. You know how she is.” Returning her cup to the table, Bianca continued, “She made this doll that was supposed to be Luke. I'd tossed it into my nightstand.” She paused, swallowed the ache, then finished, “He found it last night."
Miles rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, clasped his hands then brought them to his chin, listening patiently.
Shaking her head, her lip quivered, more tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “It was awful. Really awful."
"What did he think?"
Her laughter was sour and sarcastic. “That I used it to cast a love spell on him.” A dull throb of nausea pulsed in her stomach, a reminder of how his accusations had sickened her.
Wide-eyed, Miles asked, “Did you cast a love spell?"
"Jeez, Miles,” she huffed, her eyes narrowing with disapproval. “What do you think?"
He studied her for one long quiet moment then stated simply, “So ... that means he's in love with you."
Staring at him in disbelief, she shook her head, brows furrowed, her voice testy. “Didn't you listen to what I just said? He was angry, Miles. He stormed out of here because he thought I'd cast a love spell on him."
"B, darling, I don't think you're listening to what you just said. If the man thinks you cast a love spell on him, how would he know?” He curled a brow, obviously waiting, with forced patience, while his words sank in.
"He'd—” She choked. The heavy lashes shadowing her cheeks flew up, realization dawning. “He would be in love."
"Bingo.” He sat back with a satisfied smile.
Sudden awareness snagged the air from her lungs. Luke had fallen in love with her.
She brought shaky fingertips up to massage her temples where her heart had taken to beating in quick, sharp stabs, causing twinges of pain in her head. Feeling as if she were in a fog, Bianca muttered, “Well, it's not as if knowing that does me any good."
Miles waved a hand. “Oh, he'll come around.” In a dismal tone he added, “Unfortunately."
"No,” she rationalized, shaking her head, experiencing a hefty mixture of dismay and pragmatism. “He won't. He thinks he's in love because of a spell. He'll never believe his feelings are real."
"B, darling,” Miles began, plucking an apple from her fruit basket. He polished it against his khaki pant-covered thigh. “When he wakes up tomorrow—or the next day—or a week from now—or a year from now ... and realizes the spell hasn't worn off, it'll finally dawn on the witless wonder that his feelings are real.” Sinking his teeth into the apple, he munched, grabbing a napkin from the sunflower-shaped holder on the table and dabbing it across his mouth.
Feigning nonchalance, she shrugged. “After last night, I don't want him to come back."
Her friend let out one sharp shrill, “Ha!” wagged a finger at her, then said, “Lip twitch."
Bianca's cheeks burned but she adamantly denied it. “You're seeing things."
"Whatever.” Miles rolled his eyes. “You're on your own this time, B. I'm going to have to wash my hands of this and let you manage your own love life."
"There's no love life to manage, Miles,” she protested.
He took another noisy chunk out of the apple, tucking it into his cheek long enough to say, “Maybe this was fate after all."
She sank back into the chair. “Fate that I'd make an ass out of myself again?"
"God, Bianca. You're so maudlin.” One side of his mouth lifted in an amused grin. “Darling, you mentioned before how odd it was that he would show up, out of the blue, a Hale investigating the curse, after all this time.” He shrugged. “You said yourself that you thought it was fate."
Bianca watched him with a wordless, teary-eyed gaze.
He set his apple on the table. Laying a hand on her knee he consoled in a milder tone, “Bianca, I know I was hard on the guy. But the truth is the two of you had a connection. I saw it for myself. I'll admit it. There was something different about this one.” Settling back in his chair, he winked, adding, “He'll be back. That is, if the curse doesn't kill him first.” Laughing, he snatched up his apple and took another bite.
With shock and amusement, an odd mixture aroused by his brassy though predictable gall, she scolded, “That's not nice."
Miles waved a hand. “Oh, he'll be fine.” His smile was genuine with affection. “After all, he picked the right witch to fall head over heels for."
Bianca stood and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I love you, Miles."
"That's because I say what you want to hear."
"Really? I must've missed that part."
"There's that sarcasm I so love,” he teased, watching her move to the sink, coffee mug in hand. He cleared his throat then ventured to ask, “So ... now what?"
"Well, I'm sure Luke's already heading back to New York, planning a horribly slanderous article for the magazine.” She sighed, setting the cup in the sink, then turned, leaning her backside against the counter. “The magazine will come out in a couple of weeks, people will read it and make last minute vacation plans for Connecticut so that they can come to Clover Falls and catch a glimpse of the witch."
Miles rolled his eyes in disgust. “God, I hate tourists."
"Soon this whole thing will be a distant memory. For Luke Hale, at least.” Brushing her hands together she finished, “And that's that."
He studied her for a moment, head tilted to one side. Setting his feet flat on the floor, he shoved up from the chair. “Enough. Get in the shower now and make yourself beautiful. I'm taking you to lunch and a movie."
"Oh, I don't think so.” She shook her head.
He raised a finger and one jet-black eyebrow. “If you've learned anything, hasn't it been that it's pointless to argue with me?"
"Miles—"
"I don't have time to sweet talk you into this, darling.” Taking her by the shoulders he shoved her through the kitchen doorway, through the den, and into her bedroom. “There's a new chick-flick at the theatre I've been dying to see. Don't keep me waiting."
* * * *
Luke's telephone rang at nine in the morning. Rolling over, he moaned a string of cuss words. It had been a long night and he'd only been snoozing for a couple of hours. He grabbed the receiver when it jangled a third time, heart racing, scalp tingling. He hated being jarred from a sound sleep. “What?” he barked into the phone.
"Luke? Is everything okay?” It was Peter Buchanan, the investigator. “You haven't returned my calls."
"Sorry,” Luke mumbled groggily. With all that had transpired the night before, he had forgotten all about having contacted Peter Buchanan.
"I left messages for you at the motel in Connecticut. Three of them. And five on your machine at home. How does a field reporter get around without a cell phone?"
"I don't like them.” Too much responsibility. He barely had the time to heat up a frozen dinner much less remember to pay another bill.
Peter chuckled. “Well, then you might want to get into the habit of checking your messages."
"Good advice. Thanks,” Luke replied blandly. “Did you find out anything?"
"You bet I did. There's a Samson in Massachusetts. Edna. I contacted her. She sounds about two hundred years old, but nice. And talkative as hell. I told her everything you wanted me to, about who you are, that you're descended from Liam's son Lucas and so forth. She wants to meet you."
"Really?” Wide-awake, Luke sat upright, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. “I'd like to drive out today."
"The sooner the better.” Buchanan's agreement sounded whole-hearted. “You'll never believe what she told me, man."
"You have no idea what I'll believe.” Hadn't he seen an
d heard it all? “Surprise me."
Peter's voice was permeated with disbelief. “Luke, she says you're not really a Halestrom."
Adrenaline shot scalding liquid fire through Luke's veins. The question repeated itself in his brain—hadn't he seen and heard it all?
Apparently not.
* * * *
Cabot went to the Honeywell place late in the morning the day after arriving in Clover Falls. Driving the full-sized pick-up truck he'd rented in Pittsburgh, he parked down the road, walking the rest of the way.
She lived on Hummingbird Lane, a two-way paved street lined with tall trees and brush on both sides, houses nestled back at the end of long driveways. Hers was an old Victorian house, white with dark gray trim, set in a picture-perfect landscape. With a sneer he muttered, “Shame it'll all be gone tomorrow.” In clouds of smoke and sparking debris.
Tucked secretively behind a pink oleander bush, he staked out the place. It wasn't more than a moment or two before she came out. At least he assumed it was her. Thin, dressed in a rust-colored sundress, her hair too short. He didn't like women who chopped their hair that way. Made them look boyish.
She was with a guy Cabot thought was just too pretty for a man. Perfect slicked-back hair, clean-shaven face, spotless white polo shirt and pressed khaki pants. He was even wearing loafers. Far as Cabot was concerned, real men didn't wear loafers. They wore big bulky boots and faded jeans.
Pretty boy had his arm around the witch's shoulders and Cabot knew, right off the bat, that the two were lovers. He'd heard all about these immoral witches. They slept with lots of men. They were sinful. Unchaste. That's what his mama had always said.
The two descended the porch steps, climbed into a red Corvette then zipped along the driveway. Cabot didn't breathe until they'd turned and headed up the street. With a satisfied grin, he strolled along the driveway.
It was perfect, really. The whole set-up. With her little house tucked back behind all those trees and shrubs, it was hardly visible from the street. He could take his time, peruse the place, map out his plan, and no one would even know Cabot Halestrom had ever been there.
* * * *
In Luke's trembling hand was Rebecca Halestrom-Samson's diary. However it wasn't the diary that made his hands shake. Or the hairs at the back of his neck stand up arrow-straight. It was what Edna Samson had just told him.
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