Make You Mine

by Macy Beckett

  “She’s gone,” said a maid working in the adjacent room. The woman pointed toward the opposite stairs. “But you can probably catch her.”

  While jogging down the hallway, Marc replayed their morning together to see if he’d done something to upset Allie, but he came up empty. There was no reason for her to rush off like this.

  Eventually, he found her stacking her bags on the deck near the bow ramp.

  “Hey,” he called.

  She turned and greeted him with a warm smile, and Marc released the breath he’d been holding. In three quick strides, he joined her, settling both palms around her waist without a care for the stragglers looking on. Let them gawk. He wanted everyone to know Allie belonged to him.

  She shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun and settled a hand on his chest. “Miss me already?”

  “You weren’t going to sneak off, were you?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I was just getting my bags together; then I figured I should get out of your way.”

  Marc bent his mouth to her ear. “Sugar, I like you in my way.”

  She pulled back and gave him a seductive grin. “Do you, now?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said. “In fact, I was hoping we could talk about that.” His heart thumped and his palms were growing damp. “I’ve had a lot of fun these past couple weeks . . .”

  “Me, too.”

  “So . . .” he began, barely able to speak over the pulse pounding in his ears. “This might sound crazy, but hear me out. I think we should . . . um . . .” He trailed off, a sudden lump of fear rising in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but he lost his nerve and spat, “Hook up tonight.”

  Oh, God.

  Marc mentally smacked himself. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud.

  “Hook up?” Allie asked with an arched brow.

  “Sorry, hon. I’m an idiot. What I meant to say is that I really want to see you later.” He was still cringing at his own words when he picked up Allie’s suitcase. “Come on, let me walk you home.”

  She nodded and slipped on her backpack, but kept darting sideways glances at him that made it clear how badly he’d ruined the moment. She wouldn’t let him hold her hand until they’d crossed the bow ramp into the dock parking lot, and even then, her fingers were stiff laced among his.

  “Hey.” Marc pulled her to a stop and brought their linked hands to his lips. “Did I mention that I’m an idiot?”

  When her lips curved in a sweet smile, Marc knew he was forgiven. “Yes, but it bears repeating.”

  “I’m a complete moron. It’s a miracle I can walk and chew gum at the same time.”

  “Then I’d better lead the way home.”

  She linked her arm through his, and they strolled through the French Quarter at a leisurely pace.

  While they continued another two blocks, Marc mentally rehearsed the words he hadn’t been able to say aboard the Belle. It seemed easy enough: Allie, I know we haven’t been together very long, but I think you should move in with me. God help him, if he slipped and asked for another hook-up, she’d probably want to cut out his tongue.

  And he had big plans for that tongue.

  When they rounded the corner and caught sight of the Sweet Spot sign, Marc steeled his resolve and repeated the words in his head. Move in with me. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

  But that didn’t stop a sheen of perspiration from slicking his forehead.

  Allie paused outside her shop and studied him. “Are you okay?” She pressed her fingers to his cheeks. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

  “Fine,” he lied, holding open the door for her. “It always takes a few days to get my land legs after a trip.”

  If she doubted his lame excuse, she didn’t let it show. Instead, she hurried inside and waved at her sister, who squealed with delight while bolting toward Allie with her arms stretched wide. The two embraced each other, bouncing on their toes as if they’d been apart for a decade.

  When they finally separated, Devyn raked a gaze over Marc and pointed toward the street. “If you’re going to hurl, do it out there.”

  Marc started to say that he wasn’t feeling sick, but the scent of freshly baked sugar cookies sent his stomach into a somersault. He set down the suitcase and swayed on his feet.

  Allie checked him for a fever. “You’re not warm,” she said. “If anything, you’re a little chilled.”

  Marc’s lips began to tingle, and a cold warning crept up the base of his skull. Something was wrong. It felt like every cell in his body was rioting against him. He took Allie’s hand and kissed it. He didn’t want to leave her, but he had to get out, fast. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  She watched him back toward the door, her expression unreadable. “Sure.”

  “We’ll get together as soon as I tie up some loose ends on the Belle,” he promised.

  The last thing he saw was the nod of her curly head, and then he was gone—out the door and across the street as quick as his legs could carry him. It was the damnedest thing, but as soon as he filled his lungs with the humid, exhaust-tainted air, his pulse slowed and his skin quit crawling.

  What had happened back there?

  Marc shook his head, listening for the rattle of loose parts. Had he imagined the whole thing? Or had he worked himself up and brought on an anxiety attack? He’d never experienced anything like it.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, providing the answer before it registered inside his brain. He heard the echo of Beau’s words inside his head: It seemed like something was keeping me from getting too close, like an emotional fence. As much as Marc wished he could deny it, there was only one logical reason for his reaction inside the Sweet Spot.

  The curse was keeping him away from Allie.

  Chapter 14

  “What the hell?” Devyn peered out the front window. “That boy tore out of here so fast, I’m surprised he didn’t leave burned rubber on the sidewalk.” She spun to face Allie and shook her head in confusion. “I thought you said it was going great.”

  Allie shrugged off her backpack and let it thunk to the floor. “It was.”

  “Did you get in a fight?”

  “No.”

  “Catch him with another woman?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Well, I can tell something’s off between you two.” Devyn picked up the neglected backpack and walked it behind the counter, where she stuffed it onto the shelf of voodoo supplies. “What’s the deal?”

  Shoulders slumped, Allie helped herself to a cereal treat. She bit off a chunk and spoke with her mouth full. “He’s doing what all Dumonts do—pulling away before we get too heavy.” Then she repeated everything she’d told Ella-Claire. “He’s probably out there right now thinking he’s cursed.”

  Devyn nodded. “It makes sense.”

  Allie rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the energy for this. “For the hundredth time, there’s no hex on his family.”

  “Of course there is.” When Allie opened her mouth to argue, Dev cut her off with a lifted palm. “Open your eyes, sis. The women in Marc’s family get married, but the men don’t. That’s more than a self-inflating prophecy—”

  “Self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “Whatever,” Dev said. “Memère knew what she was doing. Neither of us is as strong as she was, but I hear there’s a real mambo in the swamp. If we work together with his guidance, I think we can break the hex.”

  Allie shook the treat at her sister. “Do you hear the crazy coming out of you?”

  “Who’s crazy?” asked Dev. “Look, do you like this guy, or not?”

  Allie resisted the urge to jut out her bottom lip. “I more than like him.”

  “Do you want to be with him?”

  “So badly it hurts.”

  �
��Then let me help you reverse the spell.” Devyn grabbed the suitcase and wheeled it toward the storage room. While towing the suitcase up the stairs to the apartment, she asked, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Allie threw her sister a sarcastic look. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “No.” Devyn opened the bedroom door and hauled the suitcase onto Allie’s bed. “But think about it—Marc believes in the curse, right?”

  “Like gospel,” Allie said.

  “So if he secretly believes the spell is real, to the point that he wouldn’t walk on the same side of the street with you, then it stands to reason he thinks you have powers.”

  Allie nodded in agreement. “Most folks do.”

  Wagging her brows, Devyn added, “Maybe even the strength to break the hex . . .”

  The message sank in slowly, until Allie gasped in realization. “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

  “Make him admit that the curse is real; then we’ll hold a cleansing ceremony to undo it. Even if the hex is fake—which it’s not—going through the motions might change that self-fulfilling prophecy you were talking about.”

  It was an intriguing idea, one that Allie began to take seriously. Nobody understood the power of the human psyche better than she did. How many times had she bent the truth to help others—conveying false messages from “the spirits” to help her clients find a match or overcome their fears? Dozens, at least.

  Why not offer herself the same service?

  If she could convince Marc that she knew how to undo Memère’s hex, it might free him from his psychological hang-ups and allow them to be happy together. Marc cared for her—she knew it. Only fear stood in his way.

  “You can mess with his head while I work on breaking the curse,” Devyn said. “One way or another, we’ll fix him. What have you got to lose?”

  Allie could think of one thing: her self-respect.

  Even though she didn’t believe in the otherworldly, common sense told her it was bad juju to begin a relationship with lies. But then she remembered how Marc had treated her like a booty call, asking for a hook-up. If she didn’t do something drastic, she’d suffer the same fate as every woman who’d come before her—another plaything to be discarded. This might be the only way to change him.

  “I hate the thought of manipulating him,” Allie said, “like he’s just another teenager seeking a love charm.”

  Devyn plopped down on the bed. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”

  When Allie unzipped her suitcase one of Marc’s T-shirts peeked at her from beneath a pile of dirty laundry. She must have accidentally scooped it up during her rush to get packed that morning. She lifted the shirt to her face and pulled in a deep breath. It still smelled like his aftershave, and her body heated at the sensation.

  “Okay,” she said, hugging the soft cotton to her chest. “Let’s try it.” She searched her luggage until she found Edward Dumont’s letter and handed it to Devyn. “And if we want Marc to admit that he’s cursed, this will do the trick in spades.”

  • • •

  Marc stifled a yawn and poured himself another Folgers refill. He usually stopped after one mug, but that was pre-Allie, back when he’d been able to sleep at night. Now insomnia was his only bed partner. Each evening was the same: as soon as he’d doze off, Marc would awake shivering—never mind that his apartment was hot enough to fry okra—feeling lost and confused, like something was missing.

  Or rather, someone.

  Three days had passed since he’d seen the woman responsible for the bags under his eyes, though not for lack of trying on his part. Each of his phone calls to her had mysteriously dropped, even when he’d used a different line. Refusing to be deterred, he’d visited her shop a dozen times, only to be told that he’d “just missed her.” During his last drop-in, the doorknob had shocked him—hard.

  It was as if the universe wanted to keep them apart, which made no sense. Assuming the curse was to blame, why had the spirits allowed him to make love with Allie aboard the Belle, when all he’d wanted was dirty, no-strings-attached sex? To punish him now that his intentions were honorable seemed backward. But then again, so did hexing a whole lineage of men for a crime they didn’t commit.

  The doorbell chimed, drawing his eye to the stove’s digital clock. Marc grunted. His friends knew better than to call on him at seven thirty in the morning. He was still in his underwear.

  “Just a minute,” he hollered while jogging to his bedroom to pull on yesterday’s clothes. On his way to the foyer it occurred to him that Allie might have come to visit, and his heart leapt painfully in anticipation of glimpsing her face. He threw open the door with a smile already in place . . . which quickly drooped into a frown.

  “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

  Ella-Claire thrust out her tongue. “Don’t look so happy to see me.”

  “Sorry. I thought you were Allie.” He stepped aside to welcome his sister. “I haven’t talked to her since the day we docked.”

  “Uh-oh, trouble in paradise already?” As she always did, Ella kicked off her shoes at the door. “That was fast, even for you.” She slid him a sideways glance. “What did you do to her?”

  Marc held both hands forward. “Nothing, I swear.”

  She answered by gripping one hip and giving him the look.

  “Honest,” he said. “I was going to take your advice on that whole ‘grand gesture’ thing, but the timing wasn’t right. And I haven’t been able to get ahold of her since.”

  “Huh,” Ella said. “That’s too bad. But on the bright side . . .” She raised a white paper bag. “I brought beignets.”

  “Thanks.” He took her offering and peeked inside to find she’d already eaten one. “To what do I owe the doughnuts?”

  Ella wandered a few steps, which brought her into his modest living room. She took a seat on the arm of his black leather sofa and scanned the bookshelves along the far wall, where his collection of Blu-rays vastly outnumbered books.

  “I’m having a girls’ weekend at my place,” she said. “Mind if I borrow some movies?”

  “Knock yourself out.” Marc swept a hand toward the shelves while striding toward the kitchen. “I’m going to eat my beignets while they’re still warm.”

  He’d just sat down at the table and lifted a fritter to his mouth when the doorbell rang again. He dropped his breakfast and rushed into the foyer, licking the powdered sugar from his fingers. This time, he opened the door to a much less friendly face.

  “You,” Devyn said accusingly.

  Of course it was him. Who else was she expecting at his town house? He glanced behind her, expecting to find Beau or Allie. He couldn’t imagine why she’d come here alone.

  “What are you doing to my sister?” she asked.

  Marc’s hand tightened around the door. “What do you mean? Is something wrong with Allie?”

  “You bet there’s something wrong. Every time you call, she goes into a trance.”

  “A trance?”

  “Yeah, you know . . .” Devyn made wide eyes while she staggered into his foyer like a zombie. “She blanks out.”

  “And you think I’m doing it to her?”

  She propped a hand on her hip and stared him down. “Probably not on purpose, but it’s still your fault.”

  The curse. Marc didn’t need to say it aloud—he knew they were both thinking it.

  “Well, maybe not your fault,” Devyn clarified, pulling a slip of paper from her handbag. The note was dingy and creased with age. “Your great-great-granddaddy’s fault.”

  Ella-Claire joined them near the front door and used a Blu-ray to point at the note. “Hey, is that the letter Allie and I found?”

  Devyn nodded.

  “Don’t give it to him!”

  Marc waved off his sister and
took the note from Devyn, then unfolded the paper, finding a solid block of meticulously penned text on the inside. He glanced at the loopy signature of Silas P. Dumont, then at the salutation, which read Dear Edward, dated 1915. It was to his great-great-granddaddy from the man’s little brother.

  At the same time, Devyn commanded, “Read it,” and Ella-Claire begged, “Don’t read it.”

  Curiosity piqued, Marc skimmed the note.

  Dear Edward,

  I pray this letter finds you safe with our grandparents, for I must confess, I have reason to fear for your well-being. I did as you requested of me, brother, and visited the St. Bartholomew Chapel this evening to convey your deepest regrets to your betrothed. I daresay Miss Mauvais was quite vexed at the news. She tore the veil from her head and rent it in two while chanting all manner of vile curses. . . .

  Marc’s eyes met Devyn’s, and he damn near dropped the note. “My great-great-grandfather was engaged to Juliette Mauvais?”

  “And ditched her at the altar,” she said, lifting a haughty brow.

  Marc couldn’t believe it. The man must have had oatmeal for brains to tangle with a woman like that—and then betray her.

  “Keep going,” Devyn said.

  Marc read ahead.

  When I followed Miss Mauvais to the chapel graveyard to intercede on your behalf, she procured soil from our father’s grave. Raising her fist to the heavens, she vowed “Fickle love shall rot your family tree. None but purest faith will set you free.” I believe she means to enspell you, Edward, and I beseech you—seek the guidance of a priest, or either endeavor to earn Miss Mauvais’s forgiveness.

  When he’d finished the letter, Marc glanced down and found his forearms prickled in goose bumps.

  Devyn snatched the paper and shook it in his face. “Do you see what this means?”

  “Yeah, I see.” Marc wished he could travel back in time and smack some sense into Edward Dumont. “I’m cursed because that coward sent a teenager to dump his fiancée.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Elle-Claire said. “The only curse is in your head—the limitations you’ve placed on yourself. If you want Allie, then go get her.”