He leaned forward. His clean essence wiped away any thought of scones or muffins or any treat one might find in an oven. “Is next weekend too soon to begin? I can arrange monthly appearances if you need me to give your plan a kick-start.”
“Next week…perfect.” Her voice came out in a rasp, as if the sounds had battled to escape her throat. “Now when can we get you to the studio to record a promo?”
“Just let me know when you need me. My schedule’s wide open next week. At least, during the day.”
She knotted her fingers. “Of course. I imagine your nights are booked.”
“I’m usually not out of Café Seven until two in the morning, if not later.”
He finished off the scone, leaving half the coffee untouched. Drat the luck. Stress tightened around her middle like a corset. She tipped her cup to her lips and indulged in a decidedly unladylike gulp.
He swallowed another draught. This time, when he placed the mug before him, only a tablespoon or so remained.
Mission accomplished.
Maybe.
She glanced at the clock. The potion should have taken effect. But still no sign of the brew’s influence.
His gaze wandered to his watch. Definitely not a good sign. She would certainly need to have a talk with Bridget. The efficacy of this particular formula was questionable, to say the least.
He placed a business card on the table. “Give me a call when you have the logistics in place. I’ll mark my calendar for Saturday afternoon.”
Her fingers traced the bold print of his name. “I anticipate we’ll be able to get into the studio by Wednesday morning. Will you be available?”
“I’ll make a point to be.” His gravel-edged drawl washed over her, smooth and tempting as the smile that lit his eyes. He stretched his long legs, then stood. “I hate to eat and run, but duty calls. Mario’s probably tearing his hair out right about now.”
“Thank you. I look forward to your appearance.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.” Something in his low tones warmed her like the sun cutting through thick gray clouds.
He shook her hand again, his grip firm and all business. And yet, his touch conjured an awareness that sped through her body like an electric current. She steeled her knees to keep them from knocking.
He turned to the door and set about his exit. Her gaze settled on his broad back. Oh well. Bridget had never failed her before. The spellcaster would simply have to come up with a contingency plan.
His hand closed around the doorknob, but he released it and slowly pivoted to face her. “There’s one more thing, Miss York.”
Was it her imagination, or had his eyes darkened? They seemed nearly sable as she met his gaze. Had he felt the awareness just as she had? Was the potion stirring feelings he hadn’t expected?
“Yes, Mr. Wilder.” Anticipation created a nearly palpable force.
His gaze settled on her face, long and savoring, seeming to drink her in. The potion was definitely kicking in. She should have known Bridget’s genius wouldn’t let her down.
A slow smile slid over his features. Nothing boyish about that grin. Ravenous wolf seemed more like it. She knotted her arms at the waist like a shield.
“Chelsea, I’d really love to take you to dinner tonight.”
Chapter Two
Hell’s bells! Where was the thrill of triumph Chelsea expected? The way Jake looked at her certainly didn’t scream love slave. If anything, it whispered in a seductive drawl, urging her to face her destiny as his next harem girl.
She swallowed hard and met his invitation with the same calm she’d extend to any other man who tried to mix business with pleasure.
“Ah, that’s so sweet of you.” She turned on the sugar. Saccharine, actually. “But I’m afraid I make it a policy to keep professional relationships…professional.”
He strolled toward her, his every step exuding the confidence of a man used to getting what he wanted. “I fully intend to devote this evening to professional matters. After all, we still have a lot to discuss.”
Her insides felt like chocolate in the sun. The sweet warmth coursed through her. Had she somehow dosed herself with Bridget’s Cupid-in-a-bottle? She shouldn’t want to say “yes” to anything this man offered. And yet, she found herself fighting a powerful temptation to accelerate the timetable of her game plan.
She couldn’t give in. She had to keep him at a distance. In Chelsea’s experience, men wanted what they couldn’t have. The tonic would maximize that hunger. She’d let him chase her until the time was right to move on to the next phase.
Forcing her mouth into a placid line, she met his dark gaze. “Even if I wanted to, I have commitments I simply can’t cast aside.” Yep. Feeding the cat. Catching up with the sitcoms she’d recorded. Plowing through the new romance on her nightstand.
“Later, then. Drinks at Café Seven. I’ll pick you up.” The self-assured set of his jaw had not wavered. Had his expression betrayed hopefulness or a flicker of doubt, she might have been tempted to experience a night with a man who’d been drooled over by beauty queens and heiresses alike. But the infuriating lack of doubt in his eyes cast her misgivings to the side like a punt gone bad.
“Thanks, but I simply can’t consider it.” She flashed what she hoped was a teasing smile. “I hope this doesn’t affect your willingness to support my initiative.”
The cocky gleam in his eyes dimmed. “Of course not. I’m a man of my word, if nothing else.”
A man of his word…indeed. Elise’s stricken face flashed through her thoughts. He certainly hadn’t honored his promises to her. She couldn’t let herself forget that, no matter how broad this man’s shoulders were, how perfectly his lean muscles flexed against the pressed cotton of his shirt, and how sinfully good he smelled.
“How refreshing. I’m so glad I can count on you.”
His gaze cooled. Had he detected the note of sarcasm in her reply?
“Give me a call when you’ve worked out the logistics. Let me know where and when. I’ll be there.”
This time, when he turned to the door, he headed to it and pushed it open with a bit more vigor than the old hinges appreciated. The chimes tinkled in spasms as the sturdy panel swung shut behind him.
Chelsea sank into an oversized wingchair. Slumping over, she rested her elbows on her knees. A sigh escaped. Relief mingled with the frustrating sense that she was the one who’d been hexed.
* * * * *
Dave Dyer.
Yeah, that was the linebacker’s name. Jake’s grip on the steering wheel of his pickup tightened. He’d felt as dazed at Chelsea York’s bookstore as he had when that mammoth son of a bitch Dyer rang his bell with a vicious blow during the Super Bowl.
Jake maneuvered the truck into a space outside Café Seven. Parking the obscenely expensive sports car he’d purchased with his first endorsement check had been a hell of a lot easier, but he’d relegated those flashy wheels to a garage after discovering the anonymity the pickup afforded. Tabloid photographers were drawn to foreign convertibles like junkyard mongrels to a juicy bone. A has-been football player in a utility vehicle didn’t have quite the cover appeal.
His mouth quirked at the thought. The photo hounds had finally tired of him. His face hadn’t splashed across a magazine cover in a couple of months, not since that little Southern socialite had plastered herself to his arm and tried to win him over with her daddy’s money. Of course, he must seem boring now. Just a businessman trying to make a go of his venture.
His football fame hadn’t hurt the restaurant, but in the long run, the service and the quality trumped the value of his jersey number. He’d poured himself into the café, sparing precious time for a few charitable ventures and little else. Not much a reporter could get his teeth into. Unlike the days when he threw around enough money to buy an army of yes-men and mannequin-perfect women who didn’t give a damn about anything but the fleeting attention gained by decorating his arm.
Women. He’d all bu
t given up on them. After the drawl-tinged drama surrounding his last acquaintance, he’d vowed to take a break. The last thing he needed was another woman who viewed a night on the town with him as a chance to get her face splashed on a checkout-line scandal sheet.
So why had he plunged headlong into what could have been another disaster? He’d damn near insisted Chelsea York have dinner with him. What the hell was he thinking? She was pretty. Exceptionally so. But so what? He was used to beautiful women, long-legged blondes with perfect tans and too much makeup. Chelsea was different. Sleek brown waves cascaded down her back. He’d wanted to grab a handful of that silky mane, drag her to him, and sample the curves her classy little red dress couldn’t hide. His groin tightened. He shifted in his seat. The memory of her scent washed over him. She smelled as good as she looked, a hint of flowers and citrus and an essence all hers.
But her luminous amber eyes couldn’t hide the truth. She was up to something. Christ, he should be used to that by now. A sweet-faced hometown girl angling for a wealthy man. At least this one had bothered to do her research. She knew he’d turned down opportunities in Los Angeles and New York to come home to Richmond, and she knew his determination to support the city’s youth. He’d bet she even knew his mother taught at a local school. The reading promotion was an original tactic, he’d give her that. Original. And clever. He’d had a soft spot for books since he was a kid. Most women would flaunt their sex appeal, not fancy, oversized cookies and a do-gooder mentality. Turning down his invitation was a classic strategy on her part, the sexual equivalent of a trick play. Make him think she’s not interested. Make him want what he couldn’t have and wonder what his next move should be. By the time he wore down her defenses, she’d be the true victor. Jesus, she could’ve been a quarterback.
But that didn’t change a damn thing. He’d honor his agreement. He’d keep it all business. A man who could pick himself up and throw a touchdown after being smashed by a three-hundred-pound hulk could sure as hell resist a bookworm. Even a ridiculously pretty bookworm who used cookies and curves as bait.
He slipped through the back door of the restaurant and surveyed the kitchen. The staff bustled about, preparing for the after-work happy-hour crowd. Satisfied with what he saw, he moved on to the bar. His head bartender, a honey-blonde former kindergarten teacher who smiled her way into tips that eclipsed her professional salary, flashed a perfect smile. Damn, she was a pretty girl.
But her smile wasn’t the one he hungered to see.
The thought of the prim, aloof tilt of Chelsea’s perfectly curved lips intrigued him. Would she taste as good as the pastries she used to lure patrons into her store?
He shook off the thought, just as he’d shaken off the hit he took when Dave Dyer knocked him flat on the gridiron. He didn’t need any more complications in his life, much less a conniving brunette who spent her days baking fancy cookies, stacking books and playing hard to get.
* * * * *
If there was one thing a single female witch dreaded more than a summons to appear before the Witches’ Council, it was a phone call from her mother. Especially when that mother had seemingly become obsessed with getting the one thing her powers couldn’t conjure—a son-in-law.
Chelsea stared dully at her phone. Did she really have the strength to endure an interrogation…albeit a friendly one…after her encounter with Jake Wilder? I’ll keep calling you if you don’t answer. This is important. Was it her imagination, or had the ringtone actually spoken to her. No doubt her mother had infiltrated the mechanism. She heaved a sigh and accepted the call. Best to get it over with now, while she was still at work and could readily manufacture an excuse to escape the conversation.
“I didn’t think you’d ever answer. I’m flying to Paris next week.” Her mother skipped pleasantries and cut straight to her reason for calling. “I want you to come with me.”
“As tempting as that is, who will run the shop? You know I have obligations.”
“Obligations, smobligations.” Chelsea could picture her mother’s finely boned hand waving away the words. “I can produce the perfect employee to run your little enterprise with a flick of the wrist. So could you. And yet, you chain yourself to that store.”
“You know how I feel about that.”
“I know, I know. You want to make it on your own. No help from your mom. Or your grandparents. Or anyone else in the family. Your father was the same way. Now look where he is. Look what all that indentured servitude got him.”
“Mom, you make it sound like Dad’s six feet under. I talked to him last week. He’s enjoying his new job in DC.”
“Civil service, no less.” Her mother huffed. “I went along with his insistence that I let my powers lie dormant for years. But once you went off to college, enough was enough. I’d spent years washing dishes. Actually washing dishes with my own two hands. How much is a woman expected to take?”
“He had a top-notch dishwasher installed, as I recall.”
“Now I have a housekeeper to do the dishes. Graham is so handy. He’s quite skilled in the kitchen, you know, in addition to his other talents.”
Ah, yes, the one-and-only Graham. Chelsea had encountered the man a few weeks earlier when she arrived for a lunch date. Shirtless perfection in tight jeans, the housekeeper kneeled at her mother’s feet, massaging her pedicured toes. Her mother had offered a demure smile as she sipped Graham-brewed iced tea from the crystal glass he’d fetched.
“I have no desire to acquire a housekeeper, much less an over-muscled hunk you conjured off a romance novel cover.”
“Would you have preferred I found someone more intellectual?” Her mother’s melodic laugh drifted to Chelsea’s ears. “Brawn really does trump brains in some cases.”
Oooh, the thought gave her chills, and not in a good way. She needed innuendo about her mother’s sex life about as much as she needed a zit on the tip of her nose. At least that could be zapped away with one short spell. Her mother was a much more formidable challenge.
“Good to know, Mom. Hey, the timer just went off. I’ve got to get these cookies out of the oven.”
“Good heavens, Chelsea, did I raise a helpless mortal or a skilled young witch? Use your powers before they wither.”
“I do. When I need them. But I enjoy baking.”
“Hmmpphh. You could make that store of yours the trendiest new business in town if you employed all of your talents.”
“You know how I feel about that.”
“I know, I know. For heaven’s sake, you’re still driving. You could eliminate that hassle and save so much time. Flying is so much more efficient. And it’s safer. How many broom accidents have you read about in the papers?”
“Actually, didn’t Aunt Tisha suffer a nasty fall?”
“Well, that was an exception,” her mother snipped. “She’d had far too much brew and tumbled right off.”
“I’m not comfortable with that…mode of transportation. In an emergency, perhaps, but not for day-to-day life.”
“I know, I know. You want to blend in with mortals. Always did. Just like your father. Well, I tell you, darling, once you get a taste of luxury, a feel for enjoying your life and taking everything your powers have to offer, you’ll wonder why you ever wasted time trying to fit in.”
“When that time comes, I’m sure you’ll be there to help me figure out what I’ve been missing.”
Her mother’s sigh seemed to echo through the room. “If that time comes. I want you to come with me now, not when I’m too old to enjoy it. It’s bad enough there’s no prospect of grandchildren on the horizon. I take it you still haven’t stumbled upon Mr. Right.”
“You’ll be the first to know, Mom.” Chelsea fought the smile tugging at her lips. She couldn’t blame her mother for trying, could she?
“If you don’t feel like Paris in the spring, there’s always London…and that handsome prince who’s still unattached. I could arrange a meeting. He’s such a man’s man, none of that simper
ing tea-and-crumpets kind of behavior. After all, we have ties to the English Royal Family all the way back to Anne Boleyn.”
“And we both know how that ended for her. Mom, I really do need to go. Enjoy your trip.”
“I’ll be in touch before I leave. Promise me you’ll give it some thought.”
“Absolutely, Mom. Take care.”
Chelsea placed the phone in its holder. A prince. Hmmm. The thought was indeed tempting. The youngest Royal certainly possessed more than his fair share of masculine appeal. And most likely, there’d be none of those pesky queenly duties to monopolize her time.
Ridiculous fancy, nothing more. She’d conjured enough trouble for herself already. One lovestruck man could be hard enough to resist. Especially when that man was Jake Wilder.
Chapter Three
Sunlight streamed through the windows of The Book Witch’s Hideaway, welcoming the new day and early-bird customers. Chelsea bustled about, pouring coffee and offering muffins and other baked treats with a smile that felt more like gritted teeth. Chatter filled the small space while readers pored over paperbacks while balancing plates on their laps. Chelsea’s lips forced an enthusiastic greeting as she welcomed a blue-haired new arrival who sprang into the shop with enough vigor to put an Olympic runner to shame.
A pox on morning people.
The words hovered in her thoughts even as she fetched another cup of fresh-brewed java. Midnight was far more to her liking. Unfortunately, her brief experiment with a late-night reading hour had produced few customers and even fewer sales. As much as she disliked feigning cheerfulness this early in the day, mornings drew readers with appetites for good food, good discussion and good books to the shop. Perhaps she’d conjure a duplicate of herself to suffer through the early-riser shift. Once she’d had time to thoroughly know her clientele, that might prove a perfect solution.
Love Potion #7 Page 2
