Flirting With Fire: A Witch's Night Out (1Night Stand)

by Tara Quan

  Leaning back in his chair, he raised a brow in challenge. “I’m guessing I’m a disappointment?”

  He could see her eyes narrowing through her mask’s cut-out holes. “More like something fishy is going on. Did you sign up for the service yourself?”

  An odd question. His gaze automatically drifted toward the area where Jack had been standing.

  Catwoman swiveled her head then reverted her attention to Leo. “Name.”

  “What?”

  She placed a gloved hand on her hip, her index finger tapping. “Of the Draco Malfoy who set this up.”

  She’d scored some serious points for recognizing the character. “Jackson Frost the Third.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Why would she have? “Consider yourself lucky.”

  Her lips pursed, she stared down at him for a long moment. Then she muttered, “What the hell,” and dropped her very attractive behind onto the opposite seat. “So, this is your idea of an easy place to pick up chicks in costume?”

  Not only was the question out of place, it bore an uncanny similarity to something he might have said to his cat. “Well…one in particular, I guess. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Cat.”

  She had to be joking. Or she obfuscated on purpose. He decided on the latter. After all, keeping one’s identity hidden made for a great exit strategy. “Mine’s Leo.”

  She lifted the leather menu and opened it, blocking his view of her face. “I know.”

  Madame Eve must employ a double standard, revealing the identity of men and not women. Another possible theory was Jack had forged the card and kept the woman’s details a secret on purpose. Both explanations seemed plausible. “What else do you know about me?”

  She flipped a page. “Everything.”

  Talk about unfair. Catwoman must have received an actual profile, complete with a photo and an option to decline the date. “It might not be all true.”

  She tilted the menu forward an inch, revealing the top half of her masked face. “What?”

  “The profile you read. Jack has a weird sense of humor. You shouldn’t trust any of it.”

  Her eyelids lowered into a slight squint, something the non-human Cat he knew had a habit of doing whenever he forgot to grab his keys. “I don’t follow.”

  “It’s obvious you received some basic information about me.” When she shook her head, he waved off the denial. “It’s not a big deal, but I thought I should tell you someone else filled everything out. Since I hadn’t been offered a file on you at all, we should pretend this is a normal date and start over.”

  With a shrug and a swift nod, she put the menu down, pulled her gloves off, and reached an arm across the table. The smile she sent him made his stomach do an unsettling flip. “My name is Catalina Gato. I’m a maid, accountant, and shape-shifting witch with a clueless boss and very meddlesome sister.”

  What a sense of humor. Considering her costume, cat burglar would have been funnier, but she deserved bonus points for saying it all with a straight face. He took her hand and fought the odd urge to grab her, kiss her silly, and tear her clothes off.

  The candle’s flame changed from blue to white. Then the fire shot up in a straight line, six inches high. Another round of nervous clapping followed.

  Their palms still touching, he frowned. “Someone here must love Halloween. These special effects are over the top, not to mention dangerous.”

  She shook her head and broke contact. Hints of disbelief and resignation laced her bell-like laugh. “Do you think Gomez has recovered enough to send a waiter our way?”

  Taking a sip of chardonnay, Cat moved pieces of seared salmon around with her fork. Despite clearly making most of its profits from alcohol sales, The Cigar Lounge had an excellent chef. Too bad frayed nerves, the constraining bodysuit, and sexual frustration limited her appetite.

  She was on a date with her boss. She’d fantasized about a moment like this, but the actual experience left her imagination in the dust. Since she’d watched Leo put on the outfit earlier, his appearance tonight shouldn’t have made much of an impact. After all, she’d chosen his shoes and even timed his cufflink-selection process out of sheer boredom.

  But something about the way his skin glowed under white candlelight changed her perspective. Gone was the clean-shaven, Clorox-wielding neat freak, the dorky Supernatural-obsessed couch potato. In his place sat a black-suit wearing man with a dark five o’clock shadow, an aura of mystery, and a flair for magic. Combined with his white Phantom mask, the possessive gleam in those sapphire eyes lent her warlock a dangerous edge.

  His gaze lingered over her breasts. One corner of his mouth lifted. Since modern fashion made larger cup sizes a shopping nightmare, his undisguised appreciation did wonders for her body image. Remembering how his desire had manifested in a column of fire, she shivered. Such lack of control might warn most witches away, but she found his raw power exhilarating.

  Sensing the attraction went both ways worsened her position. Currents of masculine possession rolled off him in waves, the molten psychic energy making her heart pound. He’d never learned to put up filters or shields, and their bond served as a conduit for his darkest fantasies.

  As he undressed her with his gaze, she could almost feel her back zipper sliding down, his fingers tracing her spine to splay over her lower back. Her body responded with damp heat. She closed her eyes and saw him bend her over the table, his hands squeezing her breasts as he positioned himself behind her. When she lifted her lids to stare at his face, the intensity of his expression made her squirm. Color tinged his cheeks. He breathed shallow and fast. Though uncertain who’d initiated it, she had no doubt they’d shared the vision.

  Remembering the consequences of letting their lust take its natural course, she tried to sever the connection. Her body trembling, she focused on physical sensations—the cold metal pressing into her palm, the smooth tablecloth under her free hand. The once crystal-clear image shimmered into a blurred overlay, but she could feel him spreading her, the rough pads of his fingers burning a path up her shaking thighs. Cool air washed over her sweat-slicked face, chilling the back of her neck where his warm breath lingered. A shaft of heat speared between her legs, forcing her to bite her lower lip to stem a cry. Using the pain, she wrenched herself out of the fantasy.

  Catching her breath, she observed his dazed expression. He had no idea of what he’d done. Staying here, playing this game with him, was too dangerous. The moment she’d realized who her one-night stand was, she should have left. A warlock-familiar bond was intimate enough without complicating the situation with sex.

  Though she couldn’t read his thoughts word for word, she had constant access to his mind. To channel his power, her abilities allowed her to sense his needs and desires. The connection worked both ways, which was why they achieved more than the bare minimum communication even when she took animal form. It also amplified the potential psychic effect of anything they both wanted. Right now, it happened to be sex.

  This level of intimacy complicated matters. While Wiccan norms didn’t flat out forbid fraternization between master and minion, such affairs tended to end in one of two ways. Either all hell broke loose when the pair split, the ensuing melodramatic supernatural shit storm creating a spectacle worthy of any reality show, or the relationship progressed at light speed toward promises of Till death do us part. Option one came with too much craziness, and option two required too much commitment. Though she liked and lusted after the warlock, she had no intention of settling down at twenty-three. On the cusp of regaining the freedom to travel the world upon her contract’s termination, she didn’t want to be tied to anyone but herself.

  This one-night stand needed to end here. It should have never started. She chalked up her moment of weakness to not having eaten a decent dinner in six months. Confinement gave her a new appreciation for good food and ambiance, and having it already paid for came as a huge plus. It had nothing to do with th
e fantasy she’d like to cling to for a little longer—the game of make-believe where they were two unattached strangers who could walk out together and do as they pleased. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

  Having made a huge dent in his massive Bistecca Fiorentina, Leo nursed a glass of Pinot Noir while watching her with undisguised fascination. “Something about you is oddly familiar.”

  She focused on assembling perfect bites: a morsel of salmon, a bit of tomato, topped with a drizzle of sauce. Nothing about fish could be construed as sexual. “We’re both wearing masks.”

  “It must be the eyes. I’ve seen them before.” He carved a sizable chunk of red meat and forked it over to her plate.

  He could say that again. She cut a small piece of steak and tried it. Though rarer than she preferred, it appealed to all her taste buds. “The food here is great,” she mumbled, reminding herself to focus on innocuous first-date conversation and not vivid fantasies of public sex.

  He took the hint and stole a corner of her salmon. “So, tell me, who’s your favorite Batman?”

  “George Clooney,” she replied with a straight face.

  His fork paused in the air. “And here I thought we might have had something.”

  Laughter bubbled. When her attempt to subdue it almost resulted in suffocation, she raised her hand to cover her mouth. Her shoulders shaking, she asked, “Let me guess. You prefer your Batmen dark and broody.”

  He shook his head. “Chicks seem to fall for the suave smile and twinkling brown eyes, acting ability be damned.”

  Her nose twitched. “On behalf of my entire gender, I accept your apology. As for the eyes, I’m partial to blue.”

  He tilted his head forward. “Are you now? By the way, you’re wasting all this food.”

  Watching him chew and swallow her salmon with gusto, she sighed. “In all honesty, it’s hard to breathe in this outfit, let alone expand my tummy.”

  Why did the man’s grin have to make her stomach flutter? Not jumping his bones was a difficult enough decision without him upping the temptation factor.

  “I always tell people vanity is never worth discomfort, but in your case, I’d be lying.”

  Giving up on the meal, she set her fork down. “Says someone who wears the male accessory trifecta—tie clip, cufflinks, and luxury watch.”

  He took another bite of her fish. “You’ll notice none of these affect my ability to eat.”

  Good point. “Being a man must be nice.”

  “Can you imagine wearing a suit five days a week and never being able to deviate from dark business colors?” he asked with a crooked grin, the feigned sufferance in his tone so exaggerated, she had to laugh. “There aren’t many shades of black and blue to choose from.”

  She placed one elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm. In a grave voice, she attempted commiseration. “How do you manage to cope?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “Lots of colorful socks.”

  She’d always wondered why he owned such an expansive collection. “What’s the point, if no one sees them?”

  He took a long swill of wine. “Why do women buy fancy underwear?”

  Touché. She placed her free hand on the table and drew circles with her thumbnail. “In case someone takes our clothes off.”

  His gaze drifted once more to her chest area. “By then, a guy’s focus won’t be on the lingerie, no matter how expensive.”

  Remembering the circumstances behind this date, her face burned. Considering she needed to cut the night short, she should quit flirting. But the words flowed with such ease she couldn’t bring herself to stop. “You’ll be disappointed. There was no way I could squeeze into this cat suit without a sports bra.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “I find exercise outfits very sexy.”

  She resisted the urge to fidget. “In all fairness, I need to tell you….”

  “We’re not having sex tonight? I realized it ten minutes into dinner.”

  She blinked. “Oh?”

  He reached over and patted the back of her hand. “Someone who reads every single page on a menu isn’t going to jump into bed with a man on a first date. I get it. But if we go on a second date, tomorrow, the label no longer applies. While we’re on the subject, what are your plans for the rest of this weekend?”

  Snuggling on his lap while watching a Warehouse 13 marathon, an awesome activity if she didn’t have to be in cat form. “I like you, I really do. But I—”

  “You have a boyfriend.”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. I wouldn’t be here, if I did.”

  “You’re about to leave the city for an extended period.”

  She wished. “Nope. Pretty much stuck here for the foreseeable future.”

  “You’re suffering from a debilitating or fatal illness.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You’re reaching, counselor.”

  “I’m not the courtroom kind of lawyer.” He leaned back in his chair and played with the stem of his wine glass. “You find me attractive, so it can’t be the problem.”

  He was right, but it seemed appropriate to play coy. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  He grinned. “Your whole face turns pink when you blush. And I can tell when a woman wants to do bad things to me.”

  So, Mr. Dork had a naughty side. The man was smooth—a little too smooth. “Fine. You’re hot. But….”

  He had the audacity to nod. “I work hard for this physique. Hours upon hours of sweat, blood, and tears, all for your viewing pleasure. I also don’t have a criminal record, do make a decent salary, and should have convinced you I’m not a psycho by now. I deserve your contact info, at the very least.”

  And she would have given it to him, but it happened to be his home phone. Since she never left the house, communicating via the Internet had made more sense than buying a mobile device. “Here’s the thing—”

  He leaned forward. “You can always reject my calls if you later decide I’m crazy.”

  She scowled. “Will you let me finish?”

  He sent her a mock salute. “Yes ma’am.” He straightened in his chair, enhancing the effect. How was she supposed to extricate herself if he kept making her giggle like a schoolgirl?

  She switched tactics. Maybe she could convince him he didn’t want another date. “Why are you asking to see me again anyway? We’re still strangers, for all intents and purposes.”

  His chin lifted, his face forming an expression of affront. “I beg to differ. I’ve gathered a ton of important details. We have spent over an hour together, and you’re very chatty.”

  She lifted an eyebrow in challenge. “Oh, yeah? What about me makes you want my number?”

  Placing his elbows on the table, he steepled his fingers. “You’re close to your family, even the little sister you complained about. Since I’m a bit of a mama’s boy, it gives us something in common.”

  The man did call his parents on a weekly basis. “For most girls, being close to your mother is not a selling point.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I don’t see why not. After all, someone else has already trained me well and eliminated a bunch of nasty male habits.”

  She had to concede this round. He never made a mess and cooked halfway-decent breakfasts. “So far, you’ve described one of my traits, and it applies to at least half the world’s female population. Any other reason for this sudden attraction?”

  He nodded, his expression grave. “You laughed at all my Star Trek jokes, identified which show ‘frack’ came from, and admitted your crush on Dean Winchester. By the way, isn’t he a little short for you?”

  She’d smiled so much since her arrival, her face muscles had grown fatigued. “Nope. I looked it up. Jensen Ackles is six foot one, which means he has three inches on me. You, Mr. Smarty-pants, have two, at the most.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Two and a half. By the way, if you could wear flats on our next outing, I’d appreciate it. It’d go well with a nice summer dress.”
/>
  She’d never realized he could be so persistent. “You’re giving me fashion advice now?”

  “You admitted your sister bought this costume, which means I’ve yet to ascertain your clothing tastes. By the way, I’m good at holding bags while women shop. My mother told me I had a talent for it back when I was eight. I’ll even help you throw away the packaging when you get home.”

  Remembering how maniacal he was about immediate disposal of rubbish, she couldn’t hold back a belly chuckle. “You’re assuming I’ll come home with you.”

  “Imagine a soft leather couch in front of a 60-inch flat screen, showing your choice of entertainment, even if it’s Grey’s Anatomy. A bucket of stovetop popcorn drizzled with smoked sea salt and olive oil, along with a tall frosty glass of Diet Coke. Given appropriate incentive, I might even massage your tired feet.” Temptation laced his voice, the allure almost supernatural. He shouldn’t command any non-elemental powers, but her overwhelming desire to say yes made her suspicious.

  Shaking her head for a return to clarity, she managed a half-hearted snort. “I’m not that naive. I can tell you’re a remote-hogger.”

  He seemed to give the accusation some thought. “Okay, maybe not a Patrick Dempsey show. The rest of the scenario, I can deliver.”

  If only she could take him up on it. “Why do you want to do this with me? I’m sure you can find other girls with television addictions.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if anyone’s told you this, but you’re drop-dead gorgeous.”

  As a matter of fact, no one had ever used those words to describe her. How was any woman supposed to resist such blatant masculine appreciation? “Black is a slimming color. I look worse with my clothes off.”

  “I doubt it.” His gaze wobbled, but he managed to maintain eye contact. “It’s too early in our relationship for me to make specific counterarguments, but I can’t wait for the time when I’ll have the necessary visual data to support my theory.”