Love Potion #7
Tara Kingston
Chelsea York is a witch on a mission. Quarterback Jake Wilder’s broken one heart too many, and Chelsea’s out to give the legendary passer a taste of his own medicine. She calls upon the city’s resident spellcaster to conjure the perfect brew for her task, Love Potion #7.
Jake Wilder left the game of football for the quiet of his hometown, but he hasn’t left fame behind. When a bewitching bookstore owner engages him in a sensuous battle of the sexes, he decides to teach the woman he believes to be a gold digger why she shouldn’t play with fire.
With seduction as their mission, both set out to become the victor in their sexual play. But they both get in over their heads when struck with desire neither can deny. And surrendering to the pleasure of temptation will lead them to discover how some passions are more potent than any spell.
Love Potion #7
Tara Kingston
Dedication
To Greg, my husband and best friend. You’ll always be my hero.
Chapter One
“I need a potion that will bring a man to his knees.”
Huddled over a table in a cozy herbal boutique, Chelsea York tapped a finger against the small photograph of football’s golden boy she’d clipped from the Sunday paper. Jake Wilder led a charmed life, or so the columnists said. Fame. Fortune. Gorgeous women—arm candy worn like the latest fashion accessory for the elite man-about-town. Even the stubble on his classically carved jaw was perfect.
The perfection of Jake Wilder’s life was about to change.
Her consultant traced a fuchsia nail against the image. Tiny lines creased Bridget’s forehead, but mischief lit the spellcaster’s jade eyes. “Literally or figuratively?”’
Chelsea nibbled her lower lip. What she was about to do was unethical. Morally reprehensible, even. The Witches’ Council could strip her of her powers for life. She’d be condemned to a life of misery. Dealing with auto mechanics. Suffering through waits at her favorite restaurants. Laundry and cooking and cleaning. She gulped a breath, pushed the horror from her mind and met Bridget’s conniving gaze.
“Both.”
* * * * *
Chelsea leaned closer to the mirror, applying mascara as if she were dressing for battle. Even armed with Bridget’s potion, she could leave nothing to chance. She wasn’t aiming for happily-ever-after.
Love at first sight would have to do.
Actually, it wouldn’t be first sight. She’d need to administer Bridget’s sweet-smelling concoction, and then the potion would need time to work. Jake Wilder wouldn’t even know Chelsea was about to become the woman of his dreams, the woman who filled every thought, day and night. The woman he couldn’t get enough of…and couldn’t get. He wouldn’t have a clue he was going to want her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life.
Not until seven minutes had passed.
Seven magical minutes from the moment the first drop touched his lips.
She slipped on her favorite curve-grazing little red dress and tan sandals with just enough heel to showcase the product of more boot camp classes than she could count. Leave nothing to chance. She spritzed her favorite cologne behind her ears and between her breasts. Bridget’s wizardry had never let her down, but a little extra insurance never hurt.
Her gaze fell on the framed photo on her dresser. She and Elise looked so young in that picture. Inseparable since their mothers set them in the same playpen, they’d shared laughter and heartache, celebrating their differences while cementing a closer bond than most sisters shared.
Elise had employed her halo of golden hair, angelic face and honeyed drawl to play the role of Southern belle with a gusto befitting an old-money debutante. Homecoming court. Beauty pageants. Dates with the big men on campus.
She’d discovered young that fluttering her ridiculously long lashes would send the male of the species rushing to fulfill her every whim. Somehow, it just seemed natural, while ever-practical Chelsea lived her life without the benefit of batted lashes or artfully tousled waves. Not that Chelsea couldn’t conjure hair extensions or the perfect cosmetic to cover any blemish. She reserved her powers for matters of much greater consequence—housecleaning, cooking and changing her cat’s litter box.
Tearstains had marred Elise’s otherwise meticulous makeup the day she left Richmond. Suitcase in hand, she’d slung her designer bag over her shoulder and swiped away a fat droplet on her cheek. “I can’t stay here,” she managed between sniffles. “I’ve got to get away…away from that…hound dog! I was just another woman in Jake’s harem.”
She’d settled her bags in the trunk of her pearl-white convertible and marched to the driver’s side, a proper lady save for the stomping of her heels against the sidewalk. With a halfhearted wave, she’d sped away, bound for New York and a new start—a start far away from her home, her best friend and Jake Wilder.
The cad had seduced Elise and cast her away. Dumped her…on Valentine’s Day, no less.
Jake Wilder was about to get a taste of Love Potion #7. And a taste of his own medicine.
Banishing the nagging little voice in her head that muttered about the Witches’ Council and dire consequences to the recesses of her mind, Chelsea slipped the vial of the spellcaster’s formula into a small quilted bag and headed out the door.
She covered the three blocks from her townhouse to her shop, drinking in the sights and sounds and smells of her neighborhood with each brisk step. The walk never failed to invigorate her. Offering greetings to the eclectic collection of residents milling about, she savored the feel of a cooling breeze against her cheeks, the beauty of spring flowers blooming in window boxes and the tap of her heels against the weathered pavement.
A quaint bookstore nestled between century-old neighborhood shops seemed just the place to meet a man one wanted to enthrall. Quiet. Relaxed. Free of the hustle and bustle of restaurants and the overt come-ons of a club. The fact that Chelsea owned this particular bookstore made the setting all the more suitable for her purposes. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee and straight-from-the-oven scones greeted her as she walked through the door. Perfect. Every witch worth her broom knew the old cliché to be all too true—the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, especially if consumption of a potion was involved. She’d whipped up an ample supply of oven-ready pastries that morning, ready for her assistant to bake as Chelsea dashed home to change from her flour-dusted jeans. She’d left nothing to chance. So why had a fist lodged in the pit of her stomach?
Shrugging off the heavy doubt as nerves and nothing more, she thanked her assistant for coming in early and hurried him out the door. Daryl had afternoon classes at the university, after all. Even if her lanky young employee seemed eager for an excuse to skip his Econ lecture, the mother hen in her wouldn’t aid his quest to sabotage his already shaky academics. Besides, she’d be better off alone with Jake Wilder. She’d close the shop for lunch after he arrived and ensure they had the privacy she’d need.
Still, the fist stubbornly set up residence in her belly. If anything, it seemed to burrow deeper with each passing moment. She pulled in a breath and busied herself arranging the latest best sellers on a center table. She glanced at the clock. Almost noon. Her quarry would soon arrive for their appointment. No time now for second thoughts.
She’d lead Wilder on to teach him a lesson, nothing more. The potion’s effects would linger for three cycles of the moon. No more. No less. If anything, he’d be a better person after this experience. He might even abandon his womanizing ways and treat women as something more than temporary trophies and bedmates. Truth be told, she was doing him a favor.
Of course, the Council might not see it that way.
The bell over th
e door chimed, announcing a visitor. She pulled in a breath, plastered on a serene girl-next-door smile and lifted her gaze to lock with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Unfortunately, the owner of those vivid aquamarine eyes was not Jake Wilder. A strikingly pretty sixty-something woman with the air of a grandmother on a mission swept toward her.
“Good morning.” The matron’s mouth stretched into a smile. “I’m looking for something to interest a ten-year-old boy. He mumbled something about zombies.”
The lump in Chelsea’s throat dissolved. “I have just the thing. We’ve received a new series.” She led the customer to a shelf near the door. “Zombie marauders. The books have been—”
Chimes again. The door creaked open. She really needed to oil that hinge.
The lump returned, bigger and meaner. By Zeus’ beard, Jake Wilder looked even more…more perfect…in person than in pictures.
His gaze swept her length and back again, an efficient, practiced perusal. His attention dipped to the book in her hand. “Great cover. Nothing like a brain-eater with blood dripping down its chin to brighten a kid’s day.”
“Oh my.” The customer smoothed a wayward silvery curl behind her ear. “You’re him. That football player.”
“Bet you’re amazed quarterbacks can read, aren’t you?” On another man’s lips, the words might have seemed flippant, but the good-humored glint in Wilder’s brown eyes added a nuance of charm to the question.
The older woman squared her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed and hardened. “That last-second pass you threw in the Super Bowl cost my team the game. My husband lost a small fortune on your lucky toss.” She expelled air with a huff. Her attention flicked back to Chelsea. “Thank you for your time, miss.”
With that, she spun out the door, a virago in pinstriped pantsuit and pumps.
“I’d hate to have been that husband.” The warmth in Jake Wilder’s expression had not dimmed. He extended his hand. “You must be Chelsea York.”
She pressed her hand to his. His palm was rougher than she’d expected, not at all the hand of a privileged jock living off his former glory. Heat flowed from his touch. The tiniest of flames stirred in her core.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilder.”
“Jake.” His smile etched his eyes with tiny creases that somehow managed to look striking against his tanned skin.
Yikes, she was still holding his hand. Her fingers uncurled and she took a step in retreat. “Thank you for coming today. I appreciate your time.”
“As you know, I’m an avid supporter of the youth in this city. I grew up here, and I want to give something back. Just let me know what I can do.”
If only he’d turn off that crooked smile. How ridiculous that he could wear at her defenses with a simple hitch of his mouth.
Drawing air into her lungs, she forced herself to stop wondering what he looked like without his pressed polo shirt and immaculately creased khakis. His scent filled her nostrils. Crisp, expensive cologne that brought to mind a storm at midnight mingled with the unmistakable essence of clean, healthy male in his prime. Her calming breath had the opposite of its intended effect. She dug her nails into her palm to divert her rampaging senses.
“As you know, Mr. Wilder…Jake…I’m putting together a series of speakers who will draw young males to appreciate books. Statistics show boys fall behind girls in reading even in elementary school. If we get them interested in the worlds created on the printed page, their achievement will follow.”
“What do you have in mind?”
She forced the truth to the back of her mind and composed her features into a calm mask. “Do you have a few minutes to discuss this…over a cup of coffee, perhaps?”
“Sure. There’s a coffee shop right across the street.”
“Actually, I serve coffee and croissants right here. They’re my signature, so to speak. If customers come for the pastries, they may actually find a book to take home.” Turning on her heel, she led him to the bistro area at the rear of her shop. “I’ve just taken a tray out of the oven.”
He settled into a black metal chair that barely contained his six-foot-plus frame. Notes of a familiar rock ballad erupted from his pocket. Retrieving his phone from his trousers, he spared the screen a glance, shook his head, and turned off the cell without answering it.
“Another crisis at the restaurant.” He shrugged. “Mario will have to figure it out without me.”
“Mario?”
“My business partner, Mario Mancuso.”
“The Mario Mancuso?” The question tumbled from her lips. Did she sound like a starstruck ditz? She sure felt like one.
“If by the Mario Mancuso you mean the quarterback whose team lost to mine with that last-second pass, that’s him.”
She’d dropped this proverbial ball in her research, but that should prove to be of no consequence. “I thought you hated each other.”
“We did. On the field. That’s what we were paid to do.”
“When did he join your venture?”
“He retired from the game after the season ended and came aboard a few weeks ago. He wants to immerse himself in the business, not just funnel money into it. So, I’m letting him savor the full restaurant owner experience.” Again, that smile. Genuine. Filled with mischief. At this rate, she’d need to take a potion herself to remain indifferent to that dimple in his chin.
“You may need to change its name.”
“Café Seven works for now. Unfortunately, Mario’s jersey number was eleven.”
“Combining the two certainly wouldn’t be an option,” she agreed. “I’ll be right back with those scones and coffee.”
She stepped behind a chalkboard, which listed the day’s featured treats, placed three scones on a platter and poured coffee into two cups, one an earthy green, the other a pastel pink. Drat her trembling fingers. She’d come this far. She needed to follow through. That same charming, smiling mouth had uttered the words that reduced Elise to a sobbing wreck huddled in a ball on top of her covers.
On Valentine’s Day. The thought proved a silent mantra, a rallying cry to shore up her resolve to follow through with her plan.
Carefully…so carefully…she lifted the dainty glass vial from its pouch and removed the stopper. Seven drops were all she’d need. Fewer than seven would stir affection or a crush, but not a full-bodied passion. More would create an obsession that haunted a man until the end of his days. She certainly didn’t want that.
Seven drops would create exactly the desired effect.
Steeling her fidgety hands to move with precision, she counted each plop against the coffee. One. Two. Three. Finally, the seventh drop soaked in. She replaced the stopper and stowed the vial out of sight.
He watched her every move as she returned to the table. Before he could reach for a cup, she set the green mug before him. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Sugar, please.” He dosed his coffee with not one but two lumps. Good heavens, the potion was already composed of a honey-based solution. The brew would absolutely drip with sweetness.
His nose wrinkled as he downed a healthy draught. Drink it. All of it. He lifted a scone to his mouth and took a bite, chewing with a marked lack of haste. Chelsea’s breath hovered in her throat. Was he actually stalling before he took another drink of her brew?
“Tell me, Mr. Wilder…Jake…what brought you back to Richmond? I’d think a man like you would crave the excitement of New York or LA.”
“This is my home. I walked these streets as a kid. My parents still live here. Not in the same place they did when I was young. When I got my first signing bonus, I made sure they got what they deserved.” Again, that smile. “My mom’s kitchen is about the size of the house I grew up in.”
The fist made another appearance in her belly. She hadn’t expected Jake Wilder, saint. Sitting there with a smile so addicting it should be illegal, speaking with genuine affection about his parents, of all things. Where was the Jake Wilder who ran through women
like she ran through shoes?
“I remember the year you were drafted. You were the number-one pick, as I recall.”
“Only because the worst team in the league desperately needed a quarterback.” He raked a hand through his flawlessly cropped wheat-brown hair. “I wasn’t the best player that year. Just the luckiest.”
Playing the modesty card. She really hadn’t expected that. Her conscience rallied, poised to stage a revolt. One deliberately clumsy jerk of her hand, and the brew would be nothing more than a puddle on the floor.
Of course, he’d had years to develop the aw shucks persona. Some public relations expert had probably coached his oh-so-endearing responses until they flowed effortlessly from his lips.
He leaned closer. “You follow football, Miss York?”
“Please, call me Chelsea.” Her hand twitched near the cup as she debated her next move. “I’ve always been a fan. Unfortunately, not of your team.”
“Maybe I can change that.”
“My father would disown me.”
“Ah, we wouldn’t want that.” He lifted the cup teasingly close to his lips, but didn’t tip any of the brew into his mouth. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Actually, I am. I was a senior in high school when you were throwing all those miraculous passes your rookie year. You were the talk of the town.”
And still are.
He set the cup down and took another bite of the scone. “This is delicious. Homemade?”
“Fresh from the oven.” She hadn’t lied, not really. After all, what difference did it make that she’d conjured a batch of dough prepared by a gourmet chef to bake? If only the viewing public realized how many of their rail-thin television cuisine gurus employed that very same technique to craft their recipes without mixing, tasting or gaining unwanted girth.
His hand went to the coffee again. He took a swig. Then another.
“So, what can I do to help with your reading promotion?”
“I’d really appreciate it if you could make an appearance or two at the store, on weekends, preferably. Also, I’ve arranged for a commercial to air on the radio. If you could lend your voice to that, I think the impact would be considerable.”
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