Jingle Spells

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  But that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for her.

  He glanced at his watch, deliberately noted the time with an exaggerated wince, then finished his drink. He was in the process of throwing cash on the bar and sliding off his stool before she realized what he was doing.

  She started. “Sorry, Lisa. Gotta run. Will get back to you later this afternoon.” She ended the call and arched an accusatory brow. “Where are you going? I thought we were having a drink.”

  “I’ve had several,” he said, making sure he’d added a decent tip. “I’ve got to get to the airport.”

  “Please,” she scoffed. “You have a private plane. You don’t have to leave right now.” She shot him a calculating look. “You’re running scared. Hmm. That’s disappointing. Never pegged you as a coward.”

  Ethan chuckled. “What am I supposed to be afraid of, Chickadee? You?” he goaded, purposely baiting her.

  Predictably, those pretty violet eyes sparked with irritation. “Yes, actually, but I can see how you’d underestimate me.” She tapped a thoughtful finger against her chin. “I wonder if you’ll still feel that way after my special guest spot on Ophelia airs this Friday.”

  Ethan stilled and the dread that had been collecting in his middle hardened into a sickening lump. Ophelia?

  The cat-in-the-cream-pot smile again. “Ah,” she breathed. “Scared now, aren’t you?”

  Yes, actually, his mind whirling with the potentially catastrophic implications of her little bombshell revelation. With a platform like the Ophelia Winslow Show, she could quite literally ruin Christmas. She could squash the Christmas spirit to the point that the magic wouldn’t work and the millions of children around the world who anxiously waited for Santa to arrive with their presents would be so disappointed that it could take years to overcome. A hit like that...

  It could be the end of Christmas.

  The end of life as he knew it, as his entire family knew it.

  And it was Ethan’s job to keep that from happening.

  His gaze slid to her once more, his frantic mind flipping through the various ways he could thwart her plan. Ultimately, he settled on the most drastic solution. He sent a text to his driver, summoning his car.

  The only way he would be able to keep her off that show would be to make it physically impossible for her to be there.

  All righty then, Ethan thought, resolvedly. He’d just have to kidnap her.

  Chapter 4

  A prick of unwelcome sympathy pinched Lark’s heart at the expression on Ethan’s face. She’d never seen that look before—it was an almost panicked sort of dread—and the idea that she’d put it there didn’t make her want to gloat at all. In fact, she had the irrational urge to comfort him, to tell him not to worry. For the briefest of seconds he’d looked impossibly alone, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Which was ridiculous. He wasn’t alone. He had his entire family—even the parents she’d never imagined him having—at his disposal, not to mention a cache of wealthy socialites waiting in the wings. (Yes, she occasionally Googled him. No, she wasn’t proud, particularly when it came to her reaction to seeing him with any of the said socialites. Like she wanted to yank out their perfectly coiffed hair and break their fake fingernails.)

  “Congratulations,” Ethan told her, not a hint of the previous concern visible. He was his cool, unflappable self, the quintessential beautiful businessman. “I know you’ve been angling for an invitation there for years.”

  Yes, she had. She’d expected him to cry foul, to immediately launch a counterattack. His graciousness unnerved her. She shot him a suspicious look. “You know you won’t be able to offer a rebuttal, right? I’m going solo on this one.”

  “Of course you are. The Powerful O doesn’t do rebuttals, at least not during the same show.”

  “Ah. So that’s your angle. You’re going to try to weasel your way in after me, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know that ‘weasel’ is the right word,” he drawled, shooting her a sidelong look. “Shall I walk you out?”

  Still confused over his behavior, it took Lark a minute to catch his meaning. “Oh. You’re really leaving?”

  He glanced at her, his direct gaze tangling with hers. “Yes. I’d mentioned the airport, remember?”

  Right. Yes, he had. She nodded, annoyed with herself. “You did.”

  He lifted a brow. “When’s your flight? Can I give you a lift? LaGuardia, right?”

  She nodded, torn. Her plane didn’t leave for another three hours, but by the time she cabbed it over and made her way through security no doubt it would nearly be time to board. But there was no point in hiring a cab when he was headed to the same place, anyway. “Yes, you can, actually. If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  He smiled at her, just the merest arch of his lips, and she felt it all the way down to her little toes. “Not at all.”

  “Excellent.” Lark snagged her purse, then proceeded toward the exit, Ethan strolling along behind her. She could feel the weight of his gaze slide down the back of her neck and over her shoulders, and then linger on her ass. Another sparkler of need ignited in her belly, making her bite the inside of her cheek.

  On second thought, being cooped up in the back of his limousine with him probably wasn’t a good idea.

  Ethan reached past her shoulder and pushed open the door with a mouthwateringly large hand. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne—something musky with a whiff of sandalwood—and could feel the heat of him behind her.

  Yep. Definitely not a good idea.

  “You know, I think maybe I should just—”

  A soft, knowing chuckle slipped past his lips, as though he’d predicted this outcome. “Who’s the coward now?”

  Lark didn’t know what she liked less—being predictable or being called a coward—but since she was determined not to be either of those things, she smiled as the limo driver accommodatingly opened her door. She climbed into the back of the car, Ethan close behind her. Though he could have easily sat on the opposite side, he moved in right next to her, his powerful thigh brushing hers.

  He was doing it on purpose. She knew it.

  Maybe that was his game, she thought. Maybe he planned to drive her so crazy with desire that she’d ultimately snap and not be able to do the Ophelia Show. Instead she’d be locked up in a little padded room with no windows or sharp objects, a blubbering mess in need of a bath and a brush.

  Was she overreacting? Yes, of course she was, but it was better than the alternative, which was letting him get into her head more than he already had—or, more importantly, getting into her body.

  She scooted over.

  He laughed again. Bastard.

  “So what’s next on your agenda?” he asked her. “Got anything lined up between now and the show?”

  Lark didn’t know why, but an alarm sounded inside of her. It was an innocent enough question, one that often came up when they were making the talk show and radio rounds, so she didn’t know why the inquiry seemed off this time...but it did.

  He turned to look at her when she didn’t readily answer and a shocked brow arched over his right eye. “Really? You relish the opportunity to tell me about Ophelia, knowing there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it, but now your other engagements are off-limits as well?” A bark of laughter erupted from his throat and he shook his head. “Wow. Talk about good sportsmanship. I guess the gloves are really off, aren’t they, Chickadee?”

  How was it possible for him to sound so confident and irritating one minute, then disappointed and vulnerable the next? More importantly, why did either of those things affect her so much?

  Ultimately it was the disappointment she couldn’t stand. Anybody who didn’t welcome the opportunity to debate their position didn’t hold a firm en
ough one, in her opinion. Ethan might have been a pain in the ass, but he’d never been one she resented or minded.

  “Lisa is rescheduling everything until after Friday,” she said. “It was part of the agreement with the producers.”

  He turned to look at her, his gaze even. “That makes sense. She’s going to want a break in your message if she’s going to launch it from her show. Think she’s on your team?”

  She smiled. “My team?”

  He returned her grin. “You know what I mean.”

  She did. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I know she’s read the book, but... Guess I’ll find out on Friday, won’t I?”

  “I guess you will,” he said. His gaze sharpened, making his green eyes appear impossibly brighter. “Tell you what. If you’re free until Friday, why don’t you come back to Gingerbread with me? I’ll give you the official tour. Give you a tour of my design studio, show you how the ornaments are made. I can take you to Cup of Cheer for peppermint cocoa, and we can go snowmobiling on Mistletoe Mountain.” He essayed another grin. “Even introduce you to my parents, if for no other reason than to prove I’ve got them.”

  If there was anything more shocking than his invitation—where the hell had that come from?—it was her actually wanting to accept it. The picture he painted struck a whimsical chord, sparked a yearning so strong in her breast it nearly stole her breath. It was crazy and wrong on so many levels that she didn’t know where to start, but...

  Lark shook her head. “I can’t.”

  Another flash of something unreadable—disappointment? “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The outcome is the same.” She paused. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you ask?”

  He looked away. “Selfish reasons,” he said. “I figured if you were going to destroy my family and my town, then you should at least see it first.”

  Her chest squeezed. “That’s not fair.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t think it’s fair that I’m not going to get a rebuttal, either, but that’s the way it is. Put the shoe on the other foot, Lark, and tell me you wouldn’t feel the same way.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “Whose point?” he scoffed. “Yours?”

  They were on the expressway headed to LaGuardia now, she realized, noting the signage. “I’m flying Bluebird,” she mentioned. “Would you let your driver know?”

  Yes, of course she would feel the same way, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d landed the slot and he hadn’t, and she’d worked too hard to get her message out there to miss an opportunity like this.

  She couldn’t afford to squander it on things like fairness and sentimentality.

  Ethan leaned forward and muttered something to the driver. But when they reached the airport, to Lark’s chagrin, he drove right past the terminal for Bluebird.

  “He missed it,” she said, wondering if the man needed his eyesight checked. “Just have him pull over. I’ll walk back.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “What? Walk? Why the hell not? I’m not an invalid.” She leaned forward. “Here is fine,” she said. “Just let me out here.”

  “He’s not going to do it,” Ethan told her.

  “Not going to do it,” she repeated, getting as annoyed as she was confused. “What do you mean? He’s going to circle again? He doesn’t have to do that. I am perfectly capable of walking back to the correct terminal. Tell him to stop.”

  “Just remember that I asked you nicely, okay?”

  She blinked. Asked her nicely? “What?”

  “Not that it’ll matter, but...”

  Lark caught a blur—a flick of Ethan’s wrist, a little burst of light—and then suddenly darkness pulled at her. She felt her cheek land against his chest, his arm come around her shoulder, and thought she heard a faint “Ho, Ho, Ho” before the world went black.

  Chapter 5

  Ethan hadn’t expected the whole damned family to be home when he arrived with an unconscious Lark in tow, but had anything recently gone according to his expectations?

  Six pairs of startled eyes turned from the grand dining room as he made his way past, stopping him in his tracks. He blinked, not entirely sure how he planned to explain himself.

  He’d acted. That was his job after all. Damage control.

  Naturally, it was Belle who spoke first, her trusty iPad in hand. Her lips quirked with sardonic humor. “Well, this is a change, brother. Ordinarily you don’t have to knock them unconscious to bring them home.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cole asked her. “He never brings them home. He uses the lounge attached to his studio to entertain,” he remarked, innuendo dripping from the last word. Taryn shot her new husband a scolding look and elbowed him in the ribs, which resulted in a startled grunt of pain and a wounded frown.

  She turned to look at Ethan. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Probably.” Though they were both geniuses, clearly in this instance Taryn was the smarter one.

  “Who do you think it is?” Dash wanted to know, ever curious, a burn hole in his shirt from his latest glassblowing project. “Should we know who it is?”

  Taryn ignored him. “Cocoa?”

  Ethan nodded, relieved that someone seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation. “Yes, please.”

  To the Evergreens, cocoa wasn’t just a hot chocolate beverage—it was a magical cure-all that could do everything from eradicate the common cold to wipe out memories, which was naturally its most important purpose.

  “Protect the secret” had become synonymous with “Drink the cocoa.” And since the secret had to be protected at all costs...

  “Son?” his mother queried cautiously, clearly wanting an explanation.

  “Ethan?” his father seconded.

  “I’ll explain later,” he promised, then headed for the stairs to take her up to his apartment. The entire Evergreen family lived in the massive Art Deco−themed lodge, each member with a set of rooms to furnish and decorate as he or she pleased, and to escape into when too much togetherness threatened to drive one insane.

  Togetherness was something the Evergreens lived, ate and breathed.

  Ordinarily it was a comfort—nothing ever felt quite right when he was away from his family for any extended period of time—and, of course, like most magical families, theirs was stronger when they were together.

  Right now, however, as the entire damned family trouped along upstairs behind him, peppering him with questions he didn’t know the answers to, “comfort” was not the word that sprang immediately to mind.

  He wished everyone but Taryn would go away. His new sister-in-law was helping—the rest of them were just being nosy.

  “Shouldn’t you be working on that new software program?” he shot at Cole. “Wrangling the reindeer?” he slung at Dash. “Feeding your caffeine habit at the Cup of Cheer?” he aimed at Belle, who blushed before a mutinous expression settled over her face.

  “My work is in hand, big brother.” Trekking along beside him, she dropped her pointed gaze to the unconscious woman in his arms. “Yours, however, seems to be in question.”

  “Oh, I’d say he’s got it in hand,” Taryn quipped. “Or her, rather.”

  “Her?” Dash repeated as they rounded the corner.

  Belle suddenly inhaled sharply. “You don’t mean... No. Surely not...”

  Taryn hurried around him and opened his door. “Thanks,” he muttered. He continued through his sitting room into his bedroom. He actually had a spare bedroom as well, but for reasons that were all too obvious, he preferred to deposit her onto his own mattress.

  A tiny frown appeared between Lark’s brows as she settled against his duvet and mewled lowly,
stretched and then relaxed like a sleepy kitten into the pillows. Dark lashes painted half-moon shadows beneath her eyes and her skin seemed particularly creamy against his royal-blue bedding. Her hair tumbled in long curls away from her face save a lone curl that hugged the underside of her jaw. He ached to sweep that hair back and put his lips there, feel her pulse beneath his mouth. Taste it.

  “Do you need a moment?” Dash asked, laughter in his voice.

  “Explain.” The single word came from his father and was delivered with calm but powerful authority, effectively silencing the rest of the room.

  Ethan straightened and looked up, hoping his expression didn’t reveal just how spun-out he felt. “This is Lark DeWynter,” he said. “Author of—”

  “The Christmas Lie,” his mother finished, her gaze sweeping back over Lark’s sleeping form. Her lips curled. “I didn’t recognize her with her mouth closed.”

  A titter of laughter sounded through the room and Taryn turned her head to hide her smile.

  “Ah,” his father said, as though that were reason enough. “So you have the situation under control. Excellent.”

  Belle’s eyes widened and she turned to her father. “You think this is under control?” she asked, her voice climbing. “He’s brought our most vocal enemy here. Into our home.” Her gaze swung back to Ethan. “Have you lost your mind? Inhaled too many paint fumes in your studio?”

  Ethan resisted the urge to slap a Mute charm on his sister, but that would undoubtedly result in a magick war—and they’d certainly had their share of those, some of them especially epic—which might give him momentary satisfaction, but which would not solve the issue at hand.

  “Why did you bring her here?” Cole wanted to know. Unlike Belle, his older brother wasn’t questioning his judgment, but was merely looking to gather facts.

  “Because she’s got a slot on the Ophelia Winslow Show on Friday and I had to stop her.”

  A beat of shocked silence sucked the air out of the room before Cole gave his head a small shake. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. Logic demanded that you’d have proper motivation for such drastic action—and the Ophelia Winslow Show is certainly that,” he added grimly. “I mean why did you bring her here? To the house? Instead of putting her up at the Nutcracker Inn, or arranging for one of the Sugarplum cottages on Holly Lake? Belle’s right,” he said, glancing at their sister, who nodded triumphantly. “Bringing her here increases our risk of exposure.”