by Linda Barlow
Table of Contents
Title Page
Blazing Nights
To My Readers:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Except from Night Games Book 2, Wicked Nights
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
Meet the Author
Blazing Nights
A Night Games Novel
Book One: Kate
Linda Barlow
Linda Barlow Books
Boston, Massachusetts
Blazing Nights
Copyright © 2013 by Linda Barlow
Based on and inspired by Bewitched copyright © 1984 by Linda Barlow
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Linda Barlow Books
www.lindabarlow.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Blazing Nights/ Linda Barlow. — 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9893070-2-4
To My Readers:
Welcome to my sexy contemporary romance series, Night Games. The series is about a group of college friends who have stayed in touch since graduation via an online game that one of them created.
The books are each complete and separate, but in some respects they build upon one another. Characters are introduced in the first novel, Blazing Nights, who appear again later in the series. While it's possible to read the stories in any order, readers will probably have the most fun if they read them sequentially.
Each of these books was published previously in some form, but they have been completely rewritten and bear little resemblance to the originals. All are considerably longer, with new characters and different events. In one case, I only kept the first chapter and threw out the rest, writing an entirely new book.
The first two books of the series are Blazing Nights (Kate's story) and Wicked Nights (Max's story). The others will follow.
Other recent releases by Linda Barlow: Fires of Destiny.
Chapter 1
First Witch: When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Second Witch: When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
She could feel his eyes on her. She'd been spooked by it all evening. For some reason she couldn't fathom, the hottest guy in the room had spent most of the evening staring at her, which was not the sort of thing that typically happened to her.
She tried to ignore him, but this was difficult. His stare—actually, it was more of a glare—was creating havoc in her body. Parts of her that had been numb for ages were tingling, and the warm, glowy feeling in her belly persisted even when she was doing her best to pretend Mr. Hot-As-Hell-But-Can't-Stop-Scowling didn't exist.
Most people circulated at parties, attempting to be social even if they weren’t in the mood. This guy didn't bother. Keeping to the gloomy edges of the room, he seemed to be one with the shadows. He had shaggy black hair, a hard-molded jaw and wicked eyes. His clothes, too, were dark: He wore a long-sleeve black tee over a pair of black jeans, enhancing the monochromatic effect. Yet, in the rare moments when she permitted herself to meet his intense gaze, Kate felt flashes of color zing through her: vibrant crimson, angry orange. She had never experienced anything quite like this before.
"Scorpio," said a light, British-accented voice in her ear.
She looked up, finding her friend Graham Hamilton beside her, his mercurial mouth curved in a smile. He had returned to the table in the corner of the Beacon Hill apartment where he and Kate were serving as astrologer and psychic for the entertainment of thirty or forty guests.
Psychic—what a charade. She had agreed because Graham had pleaded with her to help him out tonight. His blind friend, Stephanie, the hostess of this evening's party, had promised her friends to have an astrologer and a fortune-teller present. It was for a worthy cause. The fees they were charging for "readings" were being donated to the National Foundation for the Blind.
The trouble was that Kate was no fortune-teller. Her mother was a famous psychic, but if Kate had inherited any of her powers, they had yet to manifest.
"Who’s a Scorpio?" she asked Graham.
He lounged over the arm of her easy chair, handing her a glass of red wine. "Your brooding admirer." Graham flicked one hand in the direction of the man Kate was beginning to think of as her dark angel. "I’m betting that’s his sun sign. Powerful physique, hawk-like features, heavy brows, intense eyes. Sexual magnetism, too; that goes without saying. Better watch out, luv. He could be trouble."
Kate didn't argue; she knew trouble when she saw it. "Who is he?"
"You're the mind reader. You tell me."
Kate rolled her eyes. "I haven’t forgiven you for getting me into this." But she smiled as she waggled her fingers at him in as spooky a manner as she could manage. "I'm putting a spell on you the moment we get out of here. Madame Katrina indeed." She gestured toward the fortune-telling paraphernalia laid on the table in front of her: tarot cards, palmistry charts, I Ching sticks, and Graham's astrological tables. "About the only thing we don't have is a crystal ball."
Graham grinned. "Concentrate on him, luv." He nodded at the brooder. "Tell me the time and place of his birth."
"As if I could."
"If he does turn out to be Scorpio, you and he would be compatible. You're a water sign, too. Great empathy is possible, and the sex would be hot. You could use a little hot sex, couldn't you?"
Kate sighed. "I’ve gotten used to living without it."
"On the other hand," Graham went on, darting another glance at the stranger, "He would try to dominate you. A yielding little fish like you could be sucked in and swallowed."
She gently pushed away the arm Graham insisted on slinging around her shoulders. "You know I'm not the yielding type. Besides, I don’t think I believe in astrology."
"Sacrilege! It's the one true path to enlightenment. And it has the virtue of being scientific as well."
"Ahem, scientific?"
"Okay, maybe not so much."
"There are many paths to enlightenment." Assuming there even was such a thing as enlightenment.
"I'm still waiting for one of those paths to lead you into my bedroom."
She grinned at him. "Didn't you once admit to me that our charts decree we'd be hopelessly incompatible in bed?"
"Did I? Stupid me. I’d better recast those charts."
Kate laughed, and then sobered as she cast another look at
her tarot cards. Why had she ever agreed to this masquerade? Fortunately, the guests were fun loving and sophisticated, and no one was taking her too seriously.
"Do you really have a colleague named Madame Olivia who's down with a virus? And since when have you been teaming up with a psychic?"
"I only worked with her a couple times, actually. A strange lady. She not only has a sixth sense, but a seventh, eighth, and ninth as well."
"The only thing my sixth sense tells me is that I'm probably going to be denounced as a fraud."
"No way. You're an actress, and a damn good one. You can do this."
"I'd rather do Shakespeare. When can we leave?"
"Not for at least an hour. We've got four or five more readings after this break is over. Want some more wine?"
"Bring the bottle."
She and Graham were officially on one of the evening's breaks, during which they were supposed to be regenerating their psychic energy. Wine wasn't going to help, although it might relax her. Kate recalled her mother's confirmed belief in the mystical powers of herbal teas. She was glad her mother wasn't here to see her now. Mom had been encouraging her to develop her supposedly natural powers for years, as if ghost-whispering were something that could be passed down in one's DNA.
Playing idly with her tarot deck, Kate watched Graham return to mixing with the guests. His British charm, combined with his slender elegance and his blond good looks, always seemed to bring him ample success with the women. Like Kate, he was an actor, and he was accustomed to playing the role of the elegant Englishman charmed by American beauty and high spirits. He had snagged the lead role in more than one Noel Coward revival.
She snuck a quick glance in the direction where she’d last seen the hot-eyed stranger. Maybe he'd left? Nope. His tall, lean body was still casually propped against the opposite wall. She noted his lazy grace, the aura of dynamic physical power he radiated. He was not the most classically handsome man she had ever seen—his features were a little rough rather than perfectly molded—but there was an exciting earthiness about him. His hair was black and wavy, a trifle long over the collar. He had that been-in-bed-too-long and needs-a-shave look. Sexy, scruffy whiskers that one would hesitate to call a beard. She had a flash of what that rough stubble might feel like against her cheek, her throat, her breasts… Uh-oh. Lust alert.
Because of the way he was lounging against the wall, with one hand thrust aggressively into his hip pocket, Kate could see that his stomach was trim, his hips and thighs taut and free of extra flesh. She supposed he must hit the gym regularly to stay so fit. A line or two on his face suggested that he must be close to thirty.
He was certainly persistent. He was still glowering at her in a strange and rather malevolent manner. Deliberately she met his gaze and smiled. He didn't smile back, but she saw his eyes widen, as if in shock.
Maybe he was mentally deranged. Or high on the latest fashionable drug. Maybe he was some kind of freak who was engaging in a lurid fantasy about abducting and ravishing her. He looked like a ravisher, with that rugged jaw and those broody bedroom eyes. Unlike Graham, who slyly cajoled and gently seduced women, this man looked as if he would simply take what he wanted, and to hell with the consequences.
Looking away, she shuffled the tarot cards. He was making her nervous.
When Graham returned to their corner a couple of minutes later, he seemed a trifle subdued. He sat down beside her and scanned the guests. "Someone just told me that D. B. Haggarty's here tonight. You know, that investigative reporter turned web phenomenon who made a name for himself by rounding up and exposing fakes?"
"Fakes?" The word came out in a squeak.
"Everything from political corruption to falsely-labeled organic foods to sleazy hedge fund managers. He's a real crusader in the old muckraker tradition. His cable TV show has been a big hit, and his web broadcasts supposedly get YouTubed all over the world."
Kate's eyes flew to her black-clad nemesis. He was still propping up the wall, sipping a drink. It’s him, she thought. It must be. No wonder he was glaring at her—he must have marked her out as a fraud right from the start. "I've heard of him. Didn't he run a piece about Myra Kelley, that medium who used to be a friend of my mother's?"
"Yeah, he did. I didn't see it myself, but I heard Haggarty's minions really slammed her. Said she faked readings and ripped off grieving widows. He's got a thing against psychics, particularly those who claim to be able to contact the dear departed."
"He probably eats bogus fortune-tellers like me for supper." She shivered slightly. "I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this."
"I’m sorry for getting you involved. It's just that I'd promised Stephanie, and I couldn't bear to disappoint her." Graham was searching the room, examining each of the guests. "I don't see him. Maybe he won't notice us."
"What does he look like?" She glanced again toward the man she was starting to think of as her silent stalker. "Our Scorpio brooder has been contemplating my ruin all evening."
"Nah, Scorpio is too young. Haggarty's fiftyish and balding, if I remember correctly. He doesn't actually appear on his webcasts; he's the head writer and producer. But I did see a picture of him once. I've been trying to pick him out ever since I heard he was here."
Kate felt a little bit better to hear that the brooder was excluded.
"Besides, that guy is too busy contemplating your body. Smart man," Graham added, leaning over the side of her chair to run a finger around the neckline of her green silk top.
She removed his hand, exasperated. She'd known Graham too long to be overly offended. He was a good friend, but if he overindulged in wine or pharmaceuticals, he tended to sprout more hands than a Hindu goddess.
"The lady doesn't seem to want your attentions," said a deep voice from just above their heads. Kate looked up. The Scorpio brooder had proved himself capable of motion—startlingly swift motion, in fact. The latent aggression she had sensed in him had come to the fore; his fists were clenched, and he looked as if he were about to toss Graham across the room.
"Bloody hell, an old-fashioned chivalrous knight to the rescue," Graham gave the man a careless once-over, and then shot a mischievous look at her. Had he provoked him deliberately? "She doesn't require aid. I'm only a poor misguided astrologer, but she is a witch." Then he winked at Kate and rejoined the other guests.
Kate winced. Graham was such a meddler. He was referring to her upcoming role in the New Cambridge Repertory production of Macbeth. She was playing one of the three witches. But unless the Scorpio brooder was an aficionado of small Boston-area theater groups, he wouldn't understand the reference.
With some trepidation, she met the stranger's eyes. Once again, she felt the strange sensation of colors flashing: golds, scarlets, deep, arcing blues. What was that? And what was it about this guy that sent her imagination into such vivid flights of fancy?
"A witch? That I can well believe." His voice was a husky baritone. Up close, his eyes were actually blue, a dark velvety blue. His gaze flicked over her, taking in everything he had studied for so long from across the room. "They used to burn witches, didn't they? Tell me, witch," he spoke the word caressingly, "have you no fear of the flames?"
Feeling a little pensive, she answered as if under some sort of compulsion. "I do have a recurring dream of a fire that threatens me."
His eyes narrowed, and skepticism showed plainly on his face. Kate's trancelike feeling vanished. What a lame thing to say! What was wrong with her? This fortune-telling charade was really getting to her. She hardened her voice. "Who are you? Why have you been glaring at me all evening?"
"Have I?" His lips quirked mischievously. "I didn’t mean to glare. I apologize."
Okay, she thought, a bit surprised. He didn't seem like the apologizing type. "It felt pretty hostile."
A rueful smile softened his features. "My bad. I thought I was being discreet."
She smiled back, warming to his faintly self-deprecatory tone. He had strong, high cheekbone
s, an aggressive nose, and a sulky, sensual mouth. His velvet eyes radiated masculine confidence. His tall body was both athletic and graceful, and he radiated a subtle impression of leashed power that brought sexy bedroom fantasies to her mind.
Down, girl.
"Are you here for a reading?" She pretended to consult her list, even though she knew he hadn’t been one of the people who'd signed up. "What's your name?"
"Surely you can reach into my brain and pull out my name, like a rabbit from a hat. Go ahead, witch. Try."
"I’m not that gifted."
His heavy black eyebrows rose. "No? I am astonished."
His sarcastic tone declared that he was anything but. His heated gaze felt as if it were melting the silk of her top. It didn't take any psychic ability to recognize the sensual intent in him. She wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. She wasn’t accustomed to being hit on by mouth-watering strangers. "If you don't want to sit for a reading, perhaps you'd care to contribute something to the National Foundation for the Blind anyway?"
Surprising her, he lowered himself into the chair opposite her and placed his arm on the table between them, palm up but hidden by his clenched fist. "I'd be happy to. Go ahead. Open my hand; open my heart."
Curiosity surged in her. She wanted to look into his palm. She even wanted to touch him. It had been so long since she had last touched a man. Too long, her friends were insisting. Her solitary life was not exactly normal, they all kept telling her. She was still young, and she couldn't mourn forever.
She did know something about palmistry. She could hardly grow up as the daughter of a famous crackpot psychic without learning the basics. She could lay out the tarot deck and interpret the cards, too. Without these minimal talents, she would never have agreed to help Graham out tonight.
She knew enough, surely, to play this game with him. After all, she was a professional actress. So why was her heart doing a kettledrum impression?
