by Lori Foster
He must have incredible stamina, she thought, then shivered as a lustful fever crept into her bloodstream. She'd never get to know, because Zane didn't want her at all. Any other woman might have had a better chance. For some reason, he'd taken an immediate dislike to her. Even over the past year, as she'd tried to be friendlier, that hadn't changed.
Shaking herself out of her melancholy, Tamara pulled a long, thin chain decorated at the end with a silver finial displaying a couple entwined in a sensual embrace. It was another of her finds that added to the mystical illusion of the shop.
The mellow, overhead light flicked off, leaving the shop in moonlight and shadows as she made her way to the back stairs and her apartment above. There was also an outside entrance, but Tamara rarely used it unless she went out at night. Tonight, all she wanted to do was shower and go to bed and try to figure out where she'd gone wrong with Zane. The software manuals she usually worked on in the evening to give added income to the family and to help add balance to her crazy lifestyle, could wait. It looked like she might have the whole weekend to sit home and work on them.
She wanted to read the journal again, to see if she'd somehow mistaken the instructions. It had seemed so clear-cut, almost guaranteed to work. But not for her. Not for a Tremayne.
Even before Tamara had opened the door at the top of the stairs, she knew the book—and all her fantasies—would have to wait.
The family was there to visit.
She had given Olga a key ages ago, to be used only in an emergency. To the Tremaynes, everything constituted an emergency, and now they felt at ease to let themselves in whenever they wanted. With her family of self-proclaimed black sheep, counterfeit clairvoyants, and bona fide con artists, visits were seldom a casual thing. They usually meant that the family had ganged up on her with the intent of making her change her mind about something.
Not that they could. She'd been running the family since her sixteenth year, but not necessarily by choice. Someone had to do it.
Pinning a fat smile on her face, Tamara pulled the door open and said with false enthusiasm, "Uncle Thanos! Aunt Eva! Aunt Olga!"
Aunt Eva, at age seventy, the oldest in the group, and the most dramatic by far, was the only one who didn't still help out in the shop on occasion. She visited it, but usually just to criticize. She said, "So we are selling. We're being run out by demons!"
Uncle Thanos, his voice booming to match his great size, disagreed with Eva's sentiment. "It's a good thing to sell! Things'll be changing again. Finally, adventure, excitement, new travels. I'm more than ready."
Both Eva and Olga nodded, and Olga admitted, "It's for the best. We're not meant for the dormant life."
Tamara shook her head as she began removing all her jewelry and placing it on the small mahogany entrance table. So Thanos wanted to move? Ha! Getting the three of them packed up and mobile again would be a chore. Just thinking about it gave Tamara a pounding headache.
Despite the image they liked to project, her relatives were no longer the wandering Gypsies of her youth. As a child, she'd lived in more places than most people did in their entire lives. Tamara had always been grateful to them for raising her after her parents had died. They'd taken her in without hesitation, given her love and laughs, if not stability. Living with them had provided an interesting education.
But Tamara knew for a fact that they liked the settled, mostly sedate lifestyle she'd been able to give them since she'd become an adult. They took turns working with her in the shop, mostly on the busier weekends, and that was about as much excitement as they could handle these days.
Thanos now preferred to tend the tiny garden behind the house she'd bought for them, and amazingly enough, Eva and Olga knitted. They hid their projects from her, but Tamara still knew. She always knew what was going on when it came to her family.
Just as she knew their visit was for bluster. They didn't want to move, but they tried to hide that from her. And Tamara loved them all the more for their consideration.
Aunt Olga, so thin she looked like she could be folded away, announced in tones of premonition, "It's Uncle Hubert. He hasn't forgiven us for not forewarning him of his imminent death." Her frail hands covered her face. "Now we've angered him. You're right, Tamara. We must go. Before it's too late."
Tamara dropped back against the wall, so tired she wanted to collapse. Her colored contacts were starting to burn, and the ridiculous sandals pinched her beringed toes.
In as reasonable a voice as she could muster, she said, "Uncle Hubert died months ago. It was a freak accident, certainly not something we could have predicted."
"It was an omen," Olga cried.
If it had been an omen, Tamara thought with a smirk, someone had a warped sense of humor, because Hubert had expired at an outdoor concert when a vicious storm had overturned the portable toilet in which he was seated. He'd sustained a hard hit to the head and a true blow to his dignity, considering his pants had been around his ankles at the time.
"He was on the West Coast," Tamara reasoned. "We're in Kentucky. It wouldn't make much sense for Hubert to come all this way just for a little haunting over something we had no control over. Besides, it's not like we hadn't all warned him that he needed to quit partying so much.
One less concert, one less drink, one less groupie, and he might have still been with us."
The wig tickled and without caring what her relatives might think, Tamara pulled it off and vigorously ruffled her short blonde hair. Immediately her head began to feel better.
At least it did until Aunt Olga objected to Tamara's rationale.
"Mind powers," Olga insisted, "aren't affected by distance. Ghosts can damn well go wherever they please!"
Throwing up her arms in a display of frustration, Tamara stalked away. None of them had mind powers, much as they'd like to convince themselves otherwise, so there was no way they could have warned Hubert. Hubert knew it, so he had no reason to haunt them.
No, their troubles were rooted in a flesh-and-blood human, not a ghostly manifestation. But not knowing why anyone wanted to cause them trouble was what really bothered Tamara. So far as she knew, she had no enemies, and neither did her relatives. They were cons, but they were harmless cons. And it wasn't like the shop would be of value to anyone but a group of sentimental, aging Gypsies.
"I'm going to shower," she called over her shoulder, needing a few minutes of solace to shore herself up for the rest of the visit. She knew the relatives were night owls, and they wouldn't think twice about keeping her up so they could continue to lament the supposed haunting. "I'll be back in a minute."
More objections followed her down the short hall. Her living quarters consisted of a family room that opened to the outside stairs on one wall, and to the stairwell leading down to her shop on another. Next to that, separated by an arched doorway, was the kitchen, which also opened onto an L-shaped hallway. To the right was the part of the house she'd closed off. To the left was another short hallway that led to her bedroom and the bath.
Tamara could hear the buzz of the aunts grumbling, along with Thanos's booming contribution, but the closing of the bathroom door mostly drowned them out. Despite her dejection over failing with Zane, a small smile touched Tamara's mouth. Her demented family. She should have known they'd find a way to dramatize the problems with the shop and their grief for Hubert. They live to put on a show.
She loved them so much, even if they were all nut. And perhaps their visit was propitious after all. She certainly couldn't pine for Zane while dealing with her relatives ' extravagant tales of vaporish ghosts and spurious hauntings.
But even as Tamara tried to convince herself of that, her body warmed with the mere thought of Zane. She wanted him, needed him.
One way or another, she'd have to figure out how to have him before the house sold and she left town. She'd study the manual in minute detail until she found a way to win Zane over.
She deserved at least that much.
TWO
Twilight had come and gone by the time Zane locked up the store for the night. It had been a great sale, very successful, and he was pleased. So why did he still feel so on edge?
Little Gypsy.
The large, ancient building housing her shop on the ground floor sat across the alley from the newer, more modem strip mall. Zane turned and, as usual, there was a light on in her upstairs window, the room he somehow knew was her bedroom. His stomach tightened, his muscles loosened, his body warmed.
They were extreme reactions that he couldn't control, and he hated that. In part, he'd avoided her for that very reason. She got close, and he felt it in his every nerve ending. He couldn't bear it; it smacked of a weakness he refused to accept.
Even as he told himself that he wouldn't allow her to get to him, he wondered what she'd look like stripped of those ridiculous long skirts and colorful blouses. Her hair was so long, it could easily cover her nudity. And that in itself was hotly erotic.
Except that he didn't like her hair. Normally long hair was a turn-on for Zane, the ultimate in femininity. But on the Gypsy, it seemed overdone, too much along with everything else. Her hair was thick and straight and inky black --and didn't suit her at all.
Without intending to, he walked toward the building, his hands on his hips, his head tilted to stare up at that lit window. He was diagonal with the front of the shop when he noticed the sign.
Zane stared at the bold black words FOR SALE for a minute, refusing to believe what his eyes told him. She was moving away? Leaving for good?
"Shit." He stood there, feeling dazed and angry as the night breeze drifted over his heated skin, ruffling his hair, fogging his breath. He shook his head, a sharp, decisive movement.
"No!" His voice sounded ominous in the quiet of the night with all the shops closed, the street mostly empty. It was an apt reflection of the turbulence smothering him. "Hell, no."
With a hard stride, Zane started toward the stairs at the side of the house. He'd prove to himself and to her that he was in control; no curse or spell—no small Gypsy--could make him do things he didn't want to do, or feel things he didn't want to feel. He wouldn't allow it.
Determined, even a little anxious, he took the metal steps two at a time. What he'd say to her, he had no idea, but by God she wasn't going to walk away without a few explanations.
Like how the hell she'd managed to get into his head when he didn't even know her name.
And how she could dare to proposition him in the middle of a busy sale, as if she'd been asking what time it was. He'd known a lot of bold women, and appreciated them for that very quality. But what the little Gypsy had done really crossed the line.
And now she dared to invade his dreams, to the point that he couldn't sleep anymore for craving her.
If she had cast a spell, she could damn well uncast it.
That's what he'd tell her. That and a little more, like how she was far too brazen, and how she grated on his nerves even from a distance.
And how he wanted her, too.
Each footfall on her steps clanged louder and louder, until Zane was literally stomping up to her door, the stairs rattling and shifting beneath his feet. He lifted one fist, rapped hard, and waited. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he saw the curtain covering the door window move, and a pale face peeked out.
The curtain dropped immediately.
Anticipation, charged and smoldering, sizzled in the humid evening air. It shot through his veins and made his skin prickle. Zane sucked in a deep breath, and he was just about to knock again, through with waiting, when he heard the lock click.
The door opened a crack and a thin, small, blonde woman slipped out, pulling the door shut tight behind her. The landing at the top of the stairs was narrow, partially covered by a thick welcome mat. They stood close by necessity, her nose even with his throat, her hands still behind her, clutching the doorknob.
In utter silence, Zane looked her over. She wore slim jeans faded nearly white, a loose, untucked shirt, and no jewelry.
He didn't understand, didn't know who she was or why she was staying with the Gypsy—and then the breeze shifted and her scent, hot and sultry and compelling, filled him up and he went rigid.
The sweet smell of incense was gone, but the more basic aroma of woman remained, unique and tempting. Like any alert male animal, Zane drew it in, savored it, and recognized her by scent alone. Confusion swamped him, and then she looked up at him.
Large, dark green eyes fringed by impossibly long brown lashes ensnared him. Even the air he breathed seemed heated.
Zane shook his head. He knew, and yet he whispered, `Who the hell are you?"
"Tamara." She released the doorknob and shifted nervously. Her gaze never left his; like him, he doubted she could look away. "Tamara Tremayne."
Zane watched a soft, pale curl blow across her cheek. She quickly tucked it behind her small ear. His heartbeat stuttered.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, "I never introduced myself properly. Then again, you never really gave me the chance." Her voice was shaky, husky, and oh so familiar.
Zane watched her lush mouth move, now clean of the shiny red lipstick. The corners tilted up in an uncertain smile that he felt clean down to his groin.
Jesus. He knew lust, knew what it felt like, had wallowed in the intensity of it, the fiery pleasure of it. This was something more.
This was so damn powerful he shook.
"Tamara." He touched her cheek, still staring into her eyes, unable to look away for more than a few seconds at a time. She looked so different. His mind was alert to deception, not understanding why or how she'd changed so quickly, but his body had immediately known her--and reacted to her. The erection he'd fought since her visit to the store was back in full force, straining against his slacks.
Tremulous, she smiled again, and that was all it took. She was as irresistible as the air he dragged into his lungs. Zane meant to kiss her gently, to let her get used to his deep sensuality and his agreement to her proposition by small degrees.
It didn't quite happen that way.
As he leaned toward her, her lips parted, and with a groan Zane took her, his mouth hungry, starving. She made a small sound of surprise, of acceptance, and her eagerness licked over him. He felt ready to ignite with the pleasure of it.
Insane, he insisted to himself, even as he held her face still and, with one hard move, pinned her to the door with his hips. She was small, delicate, pretty . . . and she tasted better than anything he could remember. Her mouth was sweet and damp, her tongue stroking against his, accepting his, as eager as his own yet less practiced.
Her hands clutched the front of his shirt, then drifted lower to his waist, sliding slow and easy, exploring with a hunger that fueled his own. As if relishing the feel of him, her fingers spread and her small, hot hands teased. Zane threw his head back, panting, praying she'd touch him where he craved it most, trying to encourage her to do so.
And the door opened behind them.
Zane tried to catch her, but his sluggish brain was slow to react, his body too overheated to be cooperative. Tamara fell flat with a small yelp, and Zane tripped over her. He was barely able to keep from landing on top of her, smashing her into the carpet. He stumbled hard against an enormous solid object, and then was lifted off his feet and dangled in the air.
Confused, he stared down into the most ferocious face he'd ever seen on human or animal.
The man—if this was a man and not a damned yeti—sported a full, black bushy beard, a gold earring in one ear that matched a gold front tooth; his eyes were black as midnight.
Mean black eyes.
Immediately concerned for Tamara and intent on protecting her, Zane reacted on instinct. He brought his knee up in a sharp, solid blow, forcing the giant to gasp and drop him. As the man bent forward, holding his gut and wheezing, Zane grabbed him by his bushy head, ready to bring his knee up again, this time to smash a nose or break a jaw.
&nbs
p; Zane's leg flexed, readying for impact—and something wiry jumped onto his back, clawlike fingers digging in for a good hold.
Twisting around, Zane saw a small, wrinkled face, wild, gray hair pulled loose from a bun, and another set of fathomless ebony eyes. Their gazes locked; the wizened face scrunched up, then let out a screeching war cry that made the skin on Zane's body crawl and his eardrums reverberate with pain.
"Tamara?" He deliberately tried to ignore the heaving behemoth ready to skewer him, despite Tamara's pleas. Zane tangled his fingers in her hair and urged her face up to his.
She blinked at him, and those green eyes nearly did him in once again. Green, not black.
"Yes?"
Uncertain how to deal with such an overwhelming craving, Zane concentrated instead on the bizarre circumstances. "Do you think you can get this monkey off my back? I prefer my hair to stay on my head, rather than being strewn around the floor."
Gasping, Tamara leaped to her feet. She snatched the cane away from Thanos—thank God she, at least, was thinking straight— and ran behind Zane to remove the old lady who grasped him so tenaciously. It took Tamara a few minutes to get the old woman to disengage, and during that time, Zane lost a little more hair, even while he tried to hold perfectly still.
Thanos no longer held the cane, but he looked more than capable of removing body parts with his bare, ham-sized hands. Zane silently took the giant's measure; he didn't want to hurt anyone unless he was forced to.
"Aunt Olga," Tamara scolded in that beguiling voice he knew all too well, "what were you thinking, attacking him that way? You could have been hurt."
Olga waved a fistful of hair. "Ha!"
It was a cry of triumph. Zane rubbed his head and winced. He was lucky he wasn't bald.
Somehow he'd walked into a circus. Tamara wasn't Tamara anymore; she was better, and more mysterious than ever. And she had giants and witches for relatives. The best thing to do would be to walk right back out, to forget this day had ever happened.
