“Oh.” God, I’m such an idiot. Smooth, calm, cool, that’s so not me. Heat crisped her ears and she tried for a breezy, nonchalant laugh that sounded like a croaking duck. “I thought you might have meant underwear or something.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t amusement that sent the hairs prickling on the back of her neck. No, this was a male warning, a sensual sound of malice that made her toes curl in her sensible non-skid soled shoes. “I did, at first, but then I tasted your skin and answered the question for myself.”
“Oh.”
“You said that already, Clare,” he chided gently against her shoulder. She cursed the plain T-shirt she wore, wishing for some plunging neckline instead so he would have more skin to torment. “Well?”
“Neither,” she sighed out. “I thought you knew me better than that by now. I’m a cotton and denim kind of girl.”
“But if you could wear the most sinfully beautiful, sexy lingerie, what would your answer be?”
Her poor starved and greedy heart yearned with every fiber of her being to indulge in naughty, sinful panties. Oh, the sexy things she’d wear if she could! Corsets, gloves, thigh-high stockings… She’d wear them all every single day, reveling in how desirable and feminine she felt.
“You could, Clare,” he whispered against her ear again, a slow seduction surely as evil as what the serpent whispered to Eve at the tree of life. “You could wear something absolutely shocking beneath your clothes and nobody but you would know.” He paused, deliberately letting a hot gust of air fill her ear until she shivered. “And me.”
I shouldn’t answer. I shouldn’t say a single word! I should jerk my shoulders away and demand he exit my kitchen without a moment’s delay. I should…
For one sweet moment, she leaned back enough to feel his chest broad and hard against her back. Covered, safe, protected… How sweet it would be to have that chest hot against her skin, her body caged beneath his against a soft mattress…
Yiorgos… She let the moan of his name echo in her head but the only word she said aloud was, “silk.”
He tightened his arms slightly in what might have almost been an embrace. “That’s my wicked little witch.”
Then he was gone as quickly as he’d come.
The next day, she blushed every time she saw him but he made no mention of their undergarment discussion. Meanwhile she had her granny panties firmly in place, thank you very much. In fact, she deliberately wore her oldest, plainest pair she could find with the most coverage as a strict reminder.
To herself.
She was fully prepared for him to saunter into the kitchen late tonight. What she didn’t expect was for him to bring two glasses of wine and a present. That silver and pink wrapped box mocked her, snickering about how weak this twenty-seven-year-old virgin really was.
“Do you have anything left to eat? I’m starving. I’m sad to say I missed dinner entirely thanks to a business call from London.”
Oh, he certainly knew the right things to say to a kitchen witch. She couldn’t help but plate up some nice roasted chicken quarters and fruit salad she’d stashed in the walk-in fridge for the staff lunches tomorrow. Seated across from him at the island once again, eating an extremely late supper, sipping her favorite wine, and stealing glances at that present like a kid on Christmas Eve, she realized…
This is very much a date.
Her cheeks went crimson at the thought, earning an amused uplifting of his eyebrows. “What?”
Terror clutched her throat in a vise, and her stomach quivered uneasily. She’d been dreading this talk, putting it off after Helga’s demonstration for as long as possible. Avoiding the issue of his possible attraction—even if only to her food—had not made the problem disappear.
The pink bow on the slim, flat lingerie box practically winked at her.
"Impossible," she whispered.
"Nothing is impossible if you want it badly enough." His smoldering eyes said, Oh, baby, you will definitely want it…me…badly enough.
"What are we doing here?"
He gave her the smug grin he usually reserved for his most belligerent playboy act. "I believe we're eating, Ms. Remy. Technically, they’re leftovers, but they’re still very tasty."
Blinking away frustrated tears, she pushed her plate away and met his gaze head on. "Was Helga right?"
The arrogance smoothed from his face into something much harder to read. “Right about what?”
“You would make me say it,” she grumbled, her cheeks flushing.
“Of course,” he purred in a low voice that strummed her spine. “Ask me, Clare. You’re right—it’s beyond time we talked about this.”
Her cheeks burned hotter but she wasn’t embarrassed, exactly, just emotionally charged. My blood pressure must be sky high right now. “When we first met last week, you made it very clear that I wasn’t your type.”
“I said you weren’t my usual type, which, quite honestly, was a mistake in judgment. One I don’t make very often, because you’re a tempting, sexy siren, and I’ve been finding it harder and harder to resist hauling you back into my arms.” Whatever look had shocked itself onto her face made him chuckle. “Meanwhile, I believe you called me an alphahole. That certainly doesn’t sound like I’m your type, either.”
“Not my usual type,” she conceded, trying to smile coolly. Not as shaky as she felt on the inside. “If it’s my cooking…”
“It’s not,” he broke in. He leaned forward and slowly stretched out his hand across the narrow island, giving her time to withdraw.
But she didn’t want to pull away. She hungered for touch and warmth, laughter and passion, all the things a woman of her age should be able to have with whomever she chose.
His long, elegant fingers slid over the back of her hand, his fingertips lightly tracing the hills and valleys of her knuckles. Such an innocent touch, but it made her voice thick in her throat so she could hardly talk. “I thought you liked my cooking.”
“I love your cooking. But that’s not the only thing going on here.”
“It’s not?” Fine trembling spread across her shoulders and her eyes ached from staring so hard at him, willing, begging him to say it.
“Should I kiss you again so you can feel it too?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, swamped by the memory of his mouth, hot and wet pressure threatening to drag her under. Shuddering, she made herself open her eyes so he could see the truth. “No.”
He didn’t cease stroking her hand, but his voice gentled like she’d never heard before. “Why not?”
“Mr. Michelopoulos…”
“Surely you can call me Yiorgos now that you’ve had your tongue in my mouth.”
She couldn’t help the rough moan that escaped. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” He taunted, low and soft yet insistent, as ceaseless as his fingers on her skin. Somehow her hand had flopped over like a cat stretched out in a window seat, soaking in the rays of summer sun. “Telling you the truth? Would you rather we walk around like two immature idiots screeching at each other because the sexual tension was destroying our control? Instead, we can sit here like two reasonable human beings and decide how quickly I’ll have my mouth on yours again. Although I admit, I’d rather not have you smashed up against the wall outside, but in my bed.”
She clutched his hand to stop the incessant stroking that was making her insane. “I’d like that very much, but I can’t, Yiorgos.”
His eyes filled with black flame when she said his name. Turning his hand in hers, he clasped her firmly, as though he was afraid she’d leap up and run from him. “Why not, Clare?”
How much should I tell him?
If she admitted that she’d lose her power—and thus her ability to break his curse, assuming she found a way—he’d do the only possible reasonable thing. He’d back off. I’m off limits if he wants to free Remy’s of whatever ill-will might linger here.
Exactly what I want.
Right?
&n
bsp; She swallowed the cold, hard lump in her throat. Her eyes burned, hot and dry and scratchy. “I never dreamed that a man like you would want ever want me.” He opened his mouth but she stalled his response by squeezing his hand and rushing ahead while she still had the courage to put the brakes on his ardor. “Magic comes from the overflowing well within. But that well will dry up quicker than Texas in a drought if I lose my virginity.”
For long moments, he didn’t move, not a single muscle in his face twitched, no breath moved his chest.
She feared he might not believe her. “You can ask Helga if you doubt me.”
“So you’re telling me that all the powerful wizards on the Council are virgins?”
“Not all, but only because they’re the heads of their families.”
“Explain.” His voice was clipped, and he gripped her hand harder.
It might be a silly thought, but she hoped he was unconsciously trying to keep her. “Magic is inherited through the great families. Only the head of the family will be able to retain his or her power regardless of their intimate relationships. Since I’m the last Remy, our cooking magic will end either with my virginity or with me on my deathbed.”
“If you’re the last Remy, why aren’t you the head of your family?”
She tried to smile but her lips and face felt too tight, the skin pulling and skewing her attempt at wry humor. “Because you have the Remy signet ring. If I lose my virginity, I’ll be powerless without my family’s ring.”
He jerked his gaze away and stared down at the thing on his hand like it was the foulest, largest cockroach he’d ever seen. “No wonder the wretched thing has cursed me.”
She didn’t ask for him to give it to her yet again. Because if he could, he would. It would solve both of their problems. If she had the ring, she’d be able to indulge in the passion he offered, and she might even be powerful enough to break whatever curse held him.
His mouth twisted into a painful grimace, but it was her fingers getting crushed in his grip. “What a hopeless mess.”
She wanted to cry, but the pain etched into his face made her resist indulging in something that would only hurt him more. Her throat ached like she’d swallowed broken glass, but she forced the words out. “I’ll help you however I can. I’ll go through all my father’s papers and books to see if he left any explanation about what he did. I’ll even stay to help Remy’s get the star—”
He jerked free and stood so he could pace furiously back and forth. “I don’t give a damn about that bloody star! That was just an excuse to get you here.”
“If there’s a way to break the curse, I’ll need my magic to do so.” Her muscles ached like she’d run in a marathon, but she pushed to her feet and began clearing the dishes.
“Leave it,” he said flatly, not turning to look at her.
“But—”
“Leave it!” He roared louder, his hands balled into fists. She’d never seen his face so dark and hard, stone cold even while his eyes blazed like black pits of fire. “I pay dozens of people who’ll be more than happy to finish cleaning up in the morning, but I can’t find any other adorably sexy witch to ruin with my lust. Go home, Clare. Go home before I do something stupid and ruin what chance we both have for happiness.”
She stared at him a minute, her heart breaking. She’d come so close to living out her most outlandish fantasies. To have a gorgeous, rich man who wanted her, who didn’t mind the extra pounds she might carry, who lusted after her as much as her most fabulous dessert and effortlessly sensed her secret need to be conquered.
One kiss had been enough to confirm that Yiorgos would be a phenomenal lover, strong and passionate and fiercely dominant.
Now I’ll never know.
Ignoring the anger marring his face, she stepped up to him and lightly kissed his cheek. “Even though it’s impossible, thank you. Thank you for wanting me.”
He groaned deep and low in his chest and tipped his head down so he could rest his forehead to hers, but he didn’t put his hands on her. Too much temptation.
“I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman in my entire life, Clare. If only—”
She placed her fingers against his mouth. “I know. If you could, you would. If I could, I would. There’s nothing else to say.”
He turned his head side to side, letting his mouth rub her fingers. “At least take the package I put together for you.”
She wanted to refuse. It would kill her to see what sexy lingerie he might have picked out for her and know that he’d never see her in it. I’ll never be able to wear sexy lingerie for any man, let alone him.
Tears clogged her throat, but she forced herself to smile, although it was wobbly and hurt as much as her aching throat. “It’s my turn to play the word game, then. Never, or someday?”
He closed his eyes to hide the blistering determination mixed with rage and regret roiling in his gaze. “Someday, Clare, I swear it. I’ll find a way. Someday.”
NINE
Staring into the bathroom mirror, Yiorgos slipped off the signet ring and watched his face rot. Crevices in his face ate all the way down to the bone, stretching along his neck, across his shoulder, and down his arm, radiating from that cursed ring.
Clare’s ring.
It wasn’t just an illusion he saw with his eyes, because he could feel the craters pitting across his flesh with his fingers. His body felt stiff and brittle. It wouldn’t surprise him at some point if he simply fractured into a thousand pieces into a pile of dust and bits of bone.
What a dilemma he found himself in. After years of careless, emotionless relationships, he found someone who incensed him, whether with passion or anger or amusement. He had a feeling he would never completely know her inside and out. She had too many complexities. But that was definitely part of her appeal.
Only part, because he loved how she felt in his arms. He’d never known a woman so passionate… yet reserved. One innocent touch and she trembled and sighed with pleasure. He could only imagine how sweet her cries would be in his bed. Knowing she was a virgin only made her passion all the more intoxicating. He’d relish making love to a woman who loved sex and knew exactly what she wanted.
His fearless little witch would all too easily stand toe to toe with him and demand exactly which pleasure she desired.
His blackened lip curled with revulsion. How could he even think to subject her to this? He didn’t want her to see this horror, let alone be faced with the reality indefinitely. His only choice was to break the curse.
To do so, he needed Clare to retain her full power. If it came down to a certain spell that would only work if she possessed the ring, he’d have to give it to her. But that would be the worst-case scenario.
I’d rather remain a zombie than allow her to see me like this.
When he finally made it to Remy’s, he found Clare busy as usual in the kitchen. However, she wasn’t her normal chipper self. Her eyes were bleary and bloodshot as though she hadn’t slept, either. Instead of simply saying hello as she usually did, she followed him into the office.
“I went through everything I could find at home. His papers, books, notes, scraps of paper he saved, his recipes, everything.” Weariness lined her face, although he suspected it wasn’t the long night wearing on her, but grief at going through her father’s things.
Gratitude washed over him. She’d relived her father’s illness and death for him.
“I found recipes he’d jotted down but never tried. His most secret ones he saved for special occasions. Even a stack of letters and papers he’d saved from his parents. But I couldn’t find a single clue about this curse.”
He fought for an even tone of voice despite his disappointment. “I suppose it would be too easy to find a sealed letter addressed to you, hidden away where only you could find it, detailing exactly how to break the curse.”
“Wrong fairytale.” She laughed softly, but it was a sad, heartbreaking sound that tugged at his heart. “What’s strang
e is that I did find a letter he’d written to me before he died. He said how proud he was…” She paused a moment, swallowing the lump that must be choking her. “And how much he loved me. But he didn’t say a single word about the ring, Remy’s or a curse. The more I think about it, the more I don’t think it’s something Daddy would do.”
He twisted the ring on his finger, fighting to keep his face from twisting into the perpetual snarl he’d worn ever since he noticed the rot spreading through his body. “It’s definitely a very personal attack, Clare.”
“What did he do to you, Yiorgos?”
He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to slide the ring off and let her see, coerced by the sweet sound of his name on her lips. “I don’t want you to see me like this. I’d rather die.”
She touched his arm lightly and he jumped but didn’t open his eyes. “May I try to sense what’s wrong? I’m not a healer, but as odd as it may sound, I feel a surge in my magic when I touch you. Perhaps there’s some secret there I need to unlock first.”
He sat on the edge of the heavy oak desk and widened his thighs, encouraging her to come up as close and personal to him as she dared. Stepping closer—but not quite taking his blatant invitation—she placed both hands on his chest. So serious, his little witch. The furrow between her eyes deepened and she tipped her head slightly, as though straining to hear some faint strand of music from afar.
Lightly, she ran her hands across his shoulders and down his arms. Resting her hands on his forearms, she listened again. Her big brown eyes were solemn when she gazed up into his face. “I don’t feel anything. Not like before.”
He raised his hands slightly, spreading his fingers. “Try skin on skin.”
She threaded her fingers through his, clasping palms. Her eyes fluttered shut and she bit her lip. If he wasn’t mistaken, she shivered, too, as though he’d just breathed in her ear.
Watching her reaction to such an innocent touch made his blood thicken like molten lava in his veins. Was that flutter across his skin just attraction? Or magic? He couldn’t tell. “Well?”
The Zombie Billionaire's Virgin Witch (Zombie Category Romance) Page 9
