“Well, Boss, there seems to be a bit of a problem.” Endora glanced at the other authors, her eyes resting for a split-second longer on Mick’s face than on any of the others’.
Cassie caught the relevance of the look, but oddly enough, she was more pleased with the fact her protection spell was keeping Mick from an allergic reaction to Endora than she was concerned about the latter’s message. “What’s up?”
“Apparently, the promotional materials have one author’s name misspelled.” There was a collective groan from the group. “The organizers caught the mistake about an hour before we arrived, and right now they’re scrambling to put things right.”
“Which means?” Cassie prompted, in no mood for Endora’s dramatic flair for dragging out a story.
“The signing’s been moved back two hours.”
“To four o’clock?” Robert Whitman exclaimed, looking very disturbed by this turn of events. “It’s only eleven now.” He headed for the exit practically at a run.
“Must have a hot date,” Mick quipped, obviously trying to put a positive face on things. “Well, we’ve got a long lunch break. Anyone up for grabbing a cab and going to Water Tower Place to check out the restaurants?” He glanced around the group, but everyone except Cassie claimed something to do and promptly left to do it.
“Cass, why don’t you go,” Endora suggested. “I’m needed here to help straighten things out, and it’s pointless for you to sit around idle for four hours.”
This is a set up. You can’t tell me those other authors have pressing obligations.
C’mon, Cass, he’s cute. Beyond cute—he’s gorgeous. Take advantage of the Dragon Lady’s hovering here, ensuring his name won’t be misspelled again, and trade some household hints with the dashing Mr. Kazimer.
Remember what they say about paybacks, Dora. Turning to Mick, she said brightly, “Water Tower Place, it is. Just let me grab my purse.”
As Cassie walked away, Mick scanned the exhibition hall, then turned to Endora. “I don’t see Jennifer anywhere.”
“She went up to the office with the conference manager.”
A bleak look entered his eyes. “I suspect it was my misspelled name that set things back.” At Endora’s wry smile, he shook his head slowly. “Thanks for not saying anything to the others. It’s bad enough they have to put up with me on this tour.”
“I don’t hear any complaints. They’re all probably big fans of yours to begin with and are happy to bask in your celebrity.”
Mick laughed grimly. “Here’s hoping they can stomach me for the next two weeks.” He studied Cassie’s manager. “Could I impose on you to deliver a message to Jennifer?”
“Certainly.”
“Tell her I’ll be back by three, would you?”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.”
Endora shrugged. “No problem. Have a nice lunch.”
Mick’s gaze fell on Cassie as she moved toward them. “I don’t think that will be too difficult.”
Boss, you’re gonna owe me big time, Endora gloated.
CALGON, TAKE ME away, Cassie groaned silently when she caught sight of the pair heading toward her. Or, barring that, maybe the floor would just open up and swallow her without a trace.
Unfortunately, teleportation was out of the question with the McCormick Place Convention Center so crowded, and she’d never actually tried it, anyway. There was nowhere to hide. Trapped behind a table with a mile-long line of fans stretched in front of it, Cassie knew how postal workers on Tax Day felt.
“Medusa!” Endora’s tone was just the correct amount of pleased surprise at the arrival of Cassie’s mother. She subtly moved to intercept the older witch as the latter made her way, full steam ahead, past the lines of fans. A very tall, gaunt man dressed all in black followed in her wake. “Cassie has another half hour of autographing. Why don’t we go to the concessions area until she’s done?”
Medusa was not to be gainsaid. “I can’t even greet my only daughter? What utter nonsense!” She adroitly squeezed through the twelve-inch space separating Mick and Cassie’s table from Robert Whitman’s and threw her arms around her only child. “Darling! I’ve missed you. You remember Mort Morula?”
“Mom, I’m working,” Cassie said tightly, barely sparing Mort a nod of acknowledgment. She turned back to the woman whose copy of When Dust Bunnies Attack had a thick line scrawled across the title page where an autograph should have been. “I’m so sorry. Let me sign another.” She did so, added her signature to the ruined copy, and pushed both books across the table. “When you check out, tell them there’s no charge for the ruined one. They can ask me if they need verification.”
“However will you make a profit, dear, if you give your books away,” Medusa asked, loudly enough for half the hall’s occupants to hear.
“I ruined the autograph when you hugged me,” Cassie said in a low, intense voice. “I couldn’t charge that woman for a book I damaged.”
Endora caught the spark in Cassie’s eyes. “Medusa, I’ve got to insist we go to the concessions stand. There’s really no room for all of us back here behind the table.” She indicated the long line. “And plenty of fans want to buy Cassie’s book. She’ll be done in half an hour.” She herded Medusa and her escort out of the autographing area and around the edge of the curtain separating the authors from the booksellers.
“Moms,” Cassie said with a self-conscious laugh to the crowd in general. “You can’t send them to their rooms without supper.”
“It’s so cute they dress like witches to support you!” gushed a middle-aged fan at the head of the line.
Lady, you don’t know the half of it. Cassie glanced surreptitiously Mick’s direction, wondering if he’d had enough of a lull in his crowd to hear Medusa’s antics. Of course, he could have been stone deaf in the middle of a buffalo stampede and still heard her. At lunch, they’d traded writing industry horror stories, including problems with managers, and she’d sympathized with him over Jennifer’s tirades . . . Would he now be returning her sympathy?
Why should I care? she thought perversely.
After all, Mick had hired his manager. Medusa was Cassie’s mother strictly by circumstance. Anyone’s sympathy—for anything whatsoever that involved her personally—appalled her. With a mental sigh, she admitted it wasn’t the idea of Mick’s sympathy or lack thereof that had gotten her worked up. It was the thought that his opinion of her mother might actually matter. And it did. That realization shocked, to say the least. M. S. Kazimer was practically a stranger. She’d had a great time with him at lunch, but it was only lunch, after all.
He’s spoken for, Cass. No sense setting your sights on something unattainable. But her sixth sense was telling her differently, and the vibrations she’d felt from Mick that afternoon were far warmer than anything she’d picked up between him and Jennifer. This is too odd for you to sort out right now, she reminded herself. Besides, what if that weird bad guy comes back? I should be paying more attention in case he returns.
That thought firmly in her head, she finished signing for her fans while mentally preparing for the upcoming battle with Medusa over the issue of matchmaking.
She’d have been mortified to know that, even as she dismissed Mick’s opinion, he was concluding that Medusa and Jennifer had something in common, and it certainly wasn’t tact.
Four
CASSIE HAD TO count to one hundred, twice, to keep her temper in line.
Always be polite to guests, especially in public, she chanted silently. And always cast an obfuscation charm to scramble any thoughts other witches might read telepathically.
Had anyone read her current thoughts, they’d have suffered scorched brain lobes for their efforts. She was seething.
While she’d finished the book signing, Endora had managed to get Medusa and Mort
to the concessions area. A look at her frazzled cat, however, told Cassie it had come close to costing one of Endora’s lives to keep the pair under relative control. The familiar’s sleek hair was nearly standing on end, but she—having more sense than Medusa and Mort about public scenes—was subtly smoothing it into place. No licking her palm today, but she looked like the cornered animal that, in reality, she was.
Nothing angered Cassie more than seeing her friends abused, especially her familiar. And the abuse was about to end.
“Mother,” she said as pleasantly as she could, “you certainly took me by surprise.”
Medusa pushed back the sleeves of a robe that looked like the prototype for Disney’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice and smiled indulgently. “I thought you might need a change of pace.”
“I didn’t say it was a pleasant surprise, Mother.”
Her maternal parent could win an Oscar for Most Obtuse Witch on the Planet. “My fear was that you’d be lonely on this silly book tour, so I brought you Mort for company.”
If she ground her teeth any harder, Cassie knew some dentist was going to buy a yacht off the profits from her bridgework alone. “The tour started two days ago. Hardly time for me to be lonely at all. And you seem to forget that this isn’t a vacation. I’m working.”
Medusa waved a dismissive hand. “Work? You’re merely indulging yourself, Cassandra. Isn’t that what I told you, Mort? My Cassandra loves to amuse herself by slumming with humans.”
The tall, cadaverous-looking witch nodded. “Indeed.”
He could somehow manage to turn up his nose while gazing downward from his great height. The effect made him look like a giraffe reaching to eat from higher branches while watching the ground for predators. Cassie might have found the illusion amusing if she hadn’t been ready to spit nails.
“Endora and I are going downtown for dinner,” she said evenly. “Would you care to join us?”
Medusa shot the sleeves of the robe and flexed her fingers. “Where to, Cassandra? I’ll have us there in a flash.”
“No!” Cassie and Endora exclaimed as one.
Mort glared at Endora, and the familiar backed off, but his attempt at intimidation didn’t stop Cassie.
“No,” she said more calmly, moving to put a hand on her mother’s elbow. She knew the tension she felt was reflected in her eyes for all to see, but at this point she didn’t feel like concealing her feelings. “Don’t cause a scene I’ll have to undo with a charm. We’re taking a cab, not teleporting to the restaurant.”
“But, it’s so much easier—”
“If you want to come to dinner with us, it’ll be on my terms. No witchcraft in public. Please.”
Medusa sniffed loudly, but her expression softened somewhat. “If you insist.”
“I do.” She turned to Endora. “Call the restaurant and change the reservations. I have to run back up to the room to get my purse.”
“I could just—” Medusa stopped mid-sentence when Cassie turned a stern look on her. “Just a thought.”
“No witchcraft, Mother,” Cassie said with quiet emphasis. “None. Zero. Zip.” Before anyone could say anything else, she added, “You and Mort make yourselves comfortable right here. Endora and I’ll be back in a minute.” She headed for the exit, knowing her familiar was right on her heels.
They split up in the lobby, Endora heading for the phones, Cassie for the closest bank of elevators just around the corner.
Hurrying around that corner, she nearly ran headlong into Mick as he left the men’s restroom. His quick reflexes saved them from a collision, as he caught her by the shoulders and steadied her.
“Sorry,” she said.
She started to add more, but his sudden move drove every thought she had right out of her brain. Still grasping her shoulders, he adroitly spun her into the men’s room, pushing her gently but firmly around the partition that separated the urinals from the entry door.
“What the—”
“Shhh!” He held his index finger to her lips. “I thought I saw that weird guy who came to see you at the signing. To be honest, he creeps me out. So let’s hide in here for a while.”
Cassie would have bet her Witches Union card—if such a thing existed—that M. S. Kazimer was having a joke on her. He certainly didn’t look “creeped out.” In fact, he looked too sexy for words. And he was standing way too close for her peace of mind, even if her only alternative was backing into a urinal.
“Um, not to put too fine a point on it,” she said sotto voce, “but if we’re hiding from Mort, shouldn’t we be in the women’s room?”
Both of Mick’s eyebrows shot up. His eyes glittered with amusement. “Isn’t that illegal?”
Great Mother Goddess, but she wanted to kiss him. Wanted him to kiss her. But he was engaged, wasn’t he? And if so, what was he doing hauling her into a men’s bathroom on the pretext of avoiding one of her potential beaus?
Her heart gave a flustered little thump. He certainly wasn’t acting like an engaged man. So, he was either a free agent or a two-timing bastard. Given that neither she nor Endora had picked up on any affectionate vibes between Jennifer Bodin and him, he could be unattached. If she thought for a moment that he really wasn’t marrying the obnoxious publicist . . . Cassie pushed that thought aside. Right now, her problem was foiling her mother’s latest matchmaking attempt.
“I’d better go,” she said a tad breathlessly. Is he wearing Stetson? “Uhm, before Security arrests me.”
“Sure you want to risk it?”
If he got any closer, they’d be wearing the same clothes. Cassie swallowed hard. “I’ll take my chances.”
“All right. I’ll check to see if it’s safe for you to leave.” He waggled his eyebrows then peeked out the restroom door like a spy searching for counterintelligence agents. “All clear.”
She smiled in relief and gratitude for not having to face any male besides Mick on her way out of their private domain. “Thanks. Really.”
“My pleasure.”
Something about the tone of his voice, coupled with that sexy smile and killer look, made her believe he really meant it. That thought turned her insides to massive tingles. Which made her want to conjure up some reality pills. What chance did she have with M. S. Kazimer, anyway?
THAT NIGHT, MICK invited Robert Whitman out for dinner in downtown Chicago, ostensibly to welcome him to the writers’ fraternity. As anticipated, when he’d told Jennifer his plans, she’d sniffed indignantly and declared she had other things to do. Which saved him the hassle of telling her she wasn’t invited anyway. Dinner with Whitman, Mick knew, wasn’t going to be pleasant by any stretch. Nor was it open to anyone besides the two of them.
The urgency of this meeting added to his conviction of the complete surrealism of his life. Although the thought desolated him, he was quitting his career knowing it was the right thing to do. His ex-fiancée was coming on to him, and he’d practically accosted another author that afternoon. Completely surreal.
Pulling Cassandra Hathorne into the men’s room . . . God, what had he been thinking? Then the truth hit him like a brick and he had to bite back a groan. He hadn’t been thinking—with any organ above his belt. Why deny it?
At lunch that afternoon, they’d connected on a level Mick found nearly unbelievable. No one understood a writer like another writer, yet Mick had never compared experiences with a woman author. The horror genre was overwhelmingly male-dominated, and whenever the guys got together, they by and large acted like guys. Drank beer, watched ball games, ogled women. They didn’t discuss writer’s block or characters’ motivations or readers’ chat rooms. After a get-together, they’d go home, park themselves in front of their computers, and try to write their friendly rivals into the ground. They didn’t share exercises for combating low back strain caused by sitting in a chair all day, or c
ommiserate over rejection letters.
With all the turmoil in his life at that moment, with his doubts about ending his career—nearly tantamount to ending his life—a two-hour glitch in the schedule had proven to be a gift from above. He and the Kitchen Witch had gotten along like they were soul mates.
When he’d seen her hurrying out of the signing room, a worried expression dominating her lovely features, his impulse had been to surprise her worry away. And there was no point denying that his impulse had paid off for him, too. Having Cassie in his arms—getting to see her gorgeous, caramel-colored eyes at amazingly close range—made him want to grin like a dopey schoolboy. What had possessed him?
And who cared?
Now, seated in an isolated booth at the back of Trader Vic’s, Mick’s surrealistic life again intruded. His light mood turned immediately dark and grew increasingly disturbed as Robert spoke.
“. . . The guy was killed in exactly the same way as a victim in Deadly Passions,” Mick’s companion informed him tersely.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
FBI Special Agent Robert Jamison—Robert Whitman for the duration of this particular assignment—grimaced. “The Director’s exact words when Susan told him Detective Bird’s hunch was right.” He took a healthy drink of his coffee and sat forward over the table between them.
Mick knew that Susan was Susan Gannon, Jamison’s FBI supervisor. Six months before, a Baltimore police detective named David Bird had contacted Gannon’s office with some disturbing news. A devoted M. S. Kazimer fan, Bird had recognized patterns in a series of unsolved homicides he’d been investigating over the previous eighteen months. Each murder duplicated crimes in Kazimer’s novels.
“Fortunately,” Jamison continued, “Special Agent Gannon loves your books, too. She linked up to every law enforcement agency in the States and Canada for ongoing homicide investigations that might show the same pattern—” Mick raised his hand to stop Jamison’s recitation, and the agent paused. “You know the rest.”
Some Practical Magic Page 5