Casual Hex
Vicki Lewis Thompson
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Finishing a book always fills me with gratitude. Hey, I managed to put together another one! But not without plenty of help. I’m grateful for my editor Claire Zion’s continued faith in me, and the wise advice of Robert Gottlieb and Jenny Bent at Trident Media. I couldn’t have created a French hero (I’m not kidding!) without the trip to Paris planned and executed by my amazing assistant Audrey Sharpe. I also need to thank Klaus Badelt, whose score for Pirates of the Caribbean, The Curse of the Black Pearl powered me through the last few chapters. Most excellent writing music, Mr. Badelt.
Chapter 1
In his luxury apartment in Paris’s Latin Quarter late that evening, Jean-Marc Chevalier sent one last e-mail to Gwen Dubois in Big Knob, Indiana. Powering down his laptop, he instantly missed the connection they had shared for three weeks.
But if he failed to get off the Internet, he would never be packed for the early morning flight that would take him to meet her. Technically he was going to Chicago for a botanical conference, and Big Knob was only a side trip prompted by an unusual plant sighting. He no longer cared at all about the conference and not much about the plant, either.
He should care about the plant. If it was not a hoax, finding a tropical plant growing in Indiana in the dead of winter would rival anything he had discovered in the Amazon or the Kalahari. Right after New Year’s he had received his first e-mail from Gwen about a bromeliad growing on the snowy floor of the forest near Big Knob. She had agreed to keep the discovery a secret while he researched the possibility of such a phenomenon.
Keeping that secret had been easy for him, but not for her, apparently. She had concocted an excuse for his visit, something about a long-lost French relative. Fortunately the plants were growing in a forest that residents believed was haunted, so nobody went in there, especially during winter.
Being a practical sort, Gwen scoffed at the haunted forest theory and had been sneaking out in the early morning to make sure the plants were still alive. Maybe it was her pluck that drew him, or the intelligence she had shown as they had moved away from the topic of plants and debated everything from the value of hybrid cars to the excellence of California wines.
He had started out calling her Mademoiselle Dubois, as any proper Frenchman would. She had quickly insisted on Gwen, and he was given no choice but to go with Marc. The use of first names made their e-mails seem more intimate, and he had grown to like that. Gradually the botanist had taken a backseat to the man.
The attraction could hardly be physical because they had not exchanged pictures. He had no idea what she looked like and was enjoying the mystery. She could turn out to be homely and plump, but he doubted that. This meeting had a feeling of Fate about it.
Months before she had contacted him, he had decided to attend the conference in Chicago and get his first taste of the U.S. Fortunately, Chicago was within six hours’ driving distance of Big Knob, and he had easily changed his flight to come in a few days early. That seemed more than coincidence.
Was Fate throwing him in the path of scientific discovery or romance? Or both? By tomorrow night, he would have the answer to that question.
Taking his suitcase out of the closet, he swung it onto the bed and began to pack. After zipping the suitcase, he stared at it for several long seconds. What if she was as amazing as he expected? What if the chemistry he sensed through their e-mails was the beginning of a major attraction? In other words, should he take condoms?
No. That would be cheeky, taking condoms on a visit to a woman he had never met. He set the suitcase on the floor. Then he hoisted it back onto the bed and unzipped it. Condoms took up little room. No one would have to know he had them unless they became necessary.
Oh, hell, he should not take them. Despite the e-mails, what did they really know about each other? Jumping into bed directly after meeting her reminded him of that horrible American custom the one-night stand. He preferred a more romantic approach. He zipped the suitcase.
Then again, she was used to American men, and he would hate to seem hesitant by comparison. They were not strangers who had met in a bar. She had confided her worries about her mom’s arthritis, which had precipitated her parents’ move to Arizona. He had mentioned the loss of his parents ten years ago and had confessed his frustration with his younger sister, Josette, who seemed to have no idea what she wanted to do with her life.
On paper, or rather, in e-mail posts, he knew Gwen about as well as or better than he had known some women he had taken to bed. The condom issue might be irrelevant, though. He might not have that box in he bathroom that he vaguely remembered. He should check.
On his way into the bathroom, his BlackBerry rang. Retracing his steps, he grabbed it off the nightstand and looked at the readout. Josette.
He answered and continued on into the bathroom, where he opened the mirrored cabinet over the sink.
“I hate law school.”
This was so typical that he had to stop himself from laughing. “You have only started pre-law. Stay with it more than a couple of months, okay?”
“I have been there almost five months, not counting Christmas break. I am not cut out for the courtroom.”
“You have never been in the courtroom.” Tucking the phone against his shoulder, he opened the condom box. Nearly full. Not surprising. There had been no one since Blaise LaRoche.
“I was today. My professor made us act out a mock trial.”
“So soon?”
“He believes in weeding out the misfits. That would be me.”
“Josie, it is too early for you to—”
“While I was presenting my opening arguments, I puked all over him. I think they call it projectile vomiting.”
Marc squeezed his eyes shut. Poor kid. Sometimes he forgot that she was twenty-two because she acted younger than that. “It was probably something you ate. It could happen to anyone.”
“No, it was paralyzing fear. Well, not paralyzing, or I would not have puked, would I? I dropped out of all my pre-law classes.”
“But you signed up for something else, I hope?” He saw the money from his parents’ trust fund being sucked into the void of Josette’s indecision.
“Not yet. I was so horrified that I spent the rest of the day taking Victor and Hugo for a long walk along the Seine. I finally worked up the courage to call you tonight.”
Marc prayed for patience. “You need to get into some other courses. How about accounting?”
“Kill me now.”
“But math is one of your strong suits.” He gazed at the box of condoms and wondered whether to take a few instead of the whole box. “With accounting, you could avoid getting up in front of people, so there would be less risk of puking on them.”
“That would be a benefit.” She was silent for a moment. “Do accountants have their own private offices?”
“Sometimes.” He decided to take the whole box, just in case.
“I could have a cute little office all to myself and take the dogs as mascots.”
“Well, maybe.” He was unsure of that. He would much rather see her wind up in an accounting firm with lots of employees, because she tended to be too solitary, but he hated to bring that up and risk alienating her completely. She needed to settle on a steady career before she exhausted all the trust fund money.
Josette sighed. “Maybe I will try it. Oh, I went on a date last night.”
“You did?” She hardly dated at all, and he had no ideas for dealing with that, either. She was pretty and smart, but she held herself somewhat aloof.
“Surprising, I know. But he wanted to have sex right away, so I told him to drop dead.”
Marc swallowed his first re
sponse, which was to demand the bastard’s name so he could flatten his nose. “American?”
“No, Italian.”
“Well, you made the right decision.” Marc had so many questions, questions he lacked the nerve to ask. When she had turned seventeen, he had braved The Talk with her, which had embarrassed them both. He might be ten years older than Josie, but he was still her brother, not a parent. If only their mother were here to guide Josette through this time. . . . But she was not.
The doorbell rang. “Hold on, Josie. Someone is here.” He stepped into the hall and opened the door. There stood Blaise, a burgundy velvet cape setting off her platinum hair and a crystal wineglass balanced between two fingers.
He and Blaise had parted ways several months ago, and he had no second thoughts about the split. The social whirl she called a life was not his style.
“I have to go, Josie.”
“A girl is at the door, right?”
“Um, yes.”
Josette sighed. “Girls always run after you. Apparently you are the social success and I am the geek.”
“Josie, you are not a—”
“But I am. So what? Have fun in Chicago. Call me when you get there so I know you arrived safe.” Then she hung up.
Wishing he had handled the conversation better, he clicked off the BlackBerry and laid it on the hall table. “Hello, Blaise.”
“Hello, yourself.” Blaise gave him the once-over, paying particular attention to what he had in his other hand. “I was coming home from a party and saw your light. Do you have company, or is this my lucky night?”
He glanced at the box of condoms. Not much chance of finessing this one. “I . . . I have to pack.”
Her carefully groomed eyebrows arched. “For a rendezvous, I assume.” She edged her way into the apartment. “Do I know her?”
“No.” If only he had left the condoms in the bathroom. He would rather not explain himself.
“So there is someone new.” She gestured with the wineglass. “I expected that. You are marvelous in bed.”
“So are you.”
“Then what went wrong?” She nudged the door shut with the toe of her satin pump.
He smiled. “You wore me out.”
“Why not say so? I thought you liked it fast and hot. I can do it slow.” She reached for the braided loop holding her cape closed. “Let me show you.”
He moved back a step. “In bed you were fine. As I said many times, it was all the parties.”
“Funny that you can spend a week in the jungle sleeping in tents, battling snakes, bugs and God knows what else, but one late-night party exhausts you.”
“Blaise, I see no point in rehashing this.” He paused. “I really do need to finish packing.”
“Packing your condoms, you mean.” She unfastened her cape and set her wineglass on the hall table. “What if we test-drive one and see how they fit?”
Not long ago he would have taken her up on the offer. A couple of hours of intense sex and he would sleep like a baby on the plane. But that would be unfair to Blaise, and it would be unfair to him, too.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Pouting, she picked up her wineglass. “You used to be a lot more fun, Marc.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” He opened the door.
With a sigh, she walked through it. “You were the only man I could get to do it in Daddy’s private box at the opera house.”
He remembered that well, and they had come close to being caught, too.
“Good-bye, darling.” At the last minute, Blaise turned, clutched him by the back of the head and pulled him down for a kiss.
Only a clod would resist a beautiful woman’s attempt to kiss him, and Marc was no clod. Blaise gave the kiss all she had, supplying plenty of heat and lots of tongue.
She pulled back, her gaze smoky. Reaching up, she stroked the cleft in his chin, the one that made shaving a bitch but seemed to intrigue women. “Still sending me away?”
Aroused despite his resolve, Marc allowed himself a few seconds to picture rolling around on his bed with Blaise. Then he thought about the potential he sensed in this new relationship with Gwen. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Gwen’s business at Beaucoup Bouquets tended to slow down in January. Good thing, because she had something besides flower arranging on her mind these days. Specifically, a man.
Closing Beaucoup Bouquets at four, she totaled the register receipts and put on her coat, scarf and boots in preparation for walking to Click-or-Treat, Big Knob’s Internet caf’. She’d been ending her day at Click-or-Treat ever since New Year’s.
The Internet was her connection to a certain French botanist who’d decided to arrive early for his Chicago conference so he could drive down to meet her. He’d be in town around seven tomorrow night.
Gwen locked the door and started toward the Internet cafe’, owned by her friend Jeremy Dunstan. Her route took her past the police and fire department building, and this time of day she usually ran into police chief Bob Anglethorpe on his way back to the station from his afternoon snack of pie and coffee at the Hob Knob.
She would have planned to meet Marc there tomorrow night, except the restaurant closed at six. That left two potential scenarios—he could come straight to her house or she could direct him to the Big Knobian Bar. Because she’d never met him, she’d picked the bar. Assuming he didn’t behave like a potential serial killer, she’d invite him home for dinner.
As she passed the police station, the chief came toward her, bundled in a parka and wooly cap with earflaps. “Tomorrow night, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Comings and goings were common knowledge in a town of 949 residents.
“Did I hear he’ll be staying at the Holiday Inn in Evansville?”
“Uh-huh.” Big Knob had no hotel. Everyone thought Marc was a long-lost cousin, but he was still a single man. If he slept at her house, tongues would wag.
“They’re predicting snow,” Bob said. “If the roads get bad, he should stay in Chicago and drive down Thursday morning. You don’t want your newfound relative splattered all over the freeway.”
“I’m sure he’ll be careful, but thanks for the advice. See you later.” She waved and continued on her way.
Weather was an issue this time of year, no question. She’d already warned Marc not to take any foolish chances on the road. He’d laughed off her concern, which hadn’t surprised her. Through Internet research she’d discovered he was the plant world’s version of Indiana Jones, a guy who thought nothing of swimming across a barracuda-infested river if he could locate an undiscovered plant species on the other side.
A snowy highway wouldn’t intimidate him, but if the roads were truly bad and he made it here, anyway, she’d be forced out of good manners to put him up and ignore the gossip. The possibility of a man in her guest room had apparently tweaked her libido, because she’d been having erotic dreams lately.
A blond guy with hot blue eyes and an athlete’s physique appeared in various guises—as an officer in uniform, a lifeguard, a cowboy in tight jeans. Her imaginary lover seemed so real that she’d wake up trembling in the aftermath of an orgasm. Was she in such desperate need of a boyfriend that her subconscious had created a virtual one?
If so, her subconscious had done a damn good job of it. Thinking of one particular part of his anatomy, she glanced toward the large granite outcropping that had inspired the early pioneers to name the town Big Knob.
Dusted with snow, it rose 192 feet into the overcast sky, and some claimed it gave people ideas. That hadn’t been true for her until this past week, but now whenever she gazed at Big Knob, she had plenty of ideas.
She would soon be reading Marc’s e-mails, though, so she guiltily squashed those fantasies. No doubt once he arrived, her imaginary lover would disappear, which would mean she didn’t have to consider seeing a shrink. For now, though, she couldn’t seem to help what
she dreamed, and if she woke up in the middle of the night feeling sexually satisfied, that wasn’t all bad.
As she cut across the town square, her boots crunched through the frosty grass. The Christmas decorations had come down two weeks ago, and now all that was left was the life-sized bronze of the pioneer woman who had helped settle Big Knob, Isadora Mather.
As Gwen approached the intersection that bordered Click-or-Treat, a red scooter carrying Dorcas and Ambrose Lowell came putt-putting toward her, heading in the direction of Highway 64. Ambrose drove the little scooter, which struggled for traction on the icy street, and Dorcas hung on looking none too happy.
Both wore silvery down jackets with fur-trimmed hoods and black leather gloves. They looked like a couple of upscale Eskimos. Gwen still hadn’t figured out why an attractive, middle-aged couple like the Lowells had moved here from Sedona to set up a matchmaking and marriage counseling business. The matchmaking hadn’t drawn too many customers, but the marriage counseling was a hit, much to Gwen’s surprise.
“Gwen!” Ambrose waved, which temporarily made him lose control of the scooter. Dorcas yelped and hung on as Ambrose straightened his course and brought the scooter to a shaky stop beside Gwen.
Although Gwen was eager to get to the caf’ and read her e-mail, she decided to stop, at least for a minute. She had the Lowells to thank for making the connection with Marc, although there’d been absolutely no matchmaking involved in that, fortunately. She wasn’t into such things, but she was grateful to Dorcas and Ambrose for helping her make the initial contact.
The connection with Marc had been all about plants. Because the Lowells were from out of town, they didn’t believe the Whispering Forest was haunted and they liked to spend time there. One day they’d stumbled upon several strange plants and had dug one up to see if she could ID it. When she’d drawn a blank, Ambrose had suggested checking Internet sources, which had led them to Marc.
“Hi, there,” she said. “Isn’t it a little chilly riding on that thing?” That was another oddity about the Lowells—they made do with a scooter instead of buying a car like normal people. During the winter months they sometimes borrowed a car from their assistant, Maggie Madigan, but Maggie probably needed it more now that she had a two-month-old baby.
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