Love Potion #7

by Tara Kingston

  He’d played the horny jock with a vengeance. Ironic, how he’d used the stereotype he detested as a weapon. That cheesy wolf wasn’t him. But Chelsea didn’t need to know that. He’d pick up his script, make his weekend appearance, and get on with his life. The sooner, the better. He couldn’t afford to play a game he didn’t have a chance in hell of winning.

  * * * * *

  What you do with that power is up to you.

  Chelsea tore a brush through her thick mane, silently debating whether Bridget’s words had constituted a battle anthem or a warning. Placing the brush in her desk, she applied her dusky-rose lipstick with a general’s sense of purpose and slid her tortoiseshell glasses in place. Sexy librarian, huh? Ah, Number Seven, you have no idea.

  Her misgivings lay in shreds, sliced to ribbons by Jake Wilder’s swaggering daybreak performance. He’d kissed her with such heat and tenderness, she’d been swept away. For a few glorious moments, he’d wanted her and only her. And she’d wanted him. All pretense stripped away, she’d clung to him as if the passion they’d shared in those precious seconds had been something other than a ruse to break down the other’s defenses.

  She knew better now. Her temporary insanity cured, she focused on the task at hand. She’d be the woman Jake Wilder wanted.

  For now. Until the time came to execute her own end zone play.

  She stood, smoothed her black pencil skirt with her palms, and strolled to the door. After all, it wouldn’t do to keep Jake waiting. He expected a gold digger. And damn if he wasn’t going to find one.

  Her assistant, a lanky college sophomore who spent more time in the shop poring over Tolkienesque fantasies than stocking books, spared a glance over the latest tome he’d selected. “What’s the occasion?”

  “What do you mean?” She’d never mastered the art of playing coy. Even this nose-in-a-book kid saw through her.

  “Nothing.” Daryl shuffled on his feet. “You look…pretty, that’s all. You got a date?”

  “Possibly.” She turned to straighten a crooked picture on the wall.

  “He’s here.” Daryl didn’t bother to close his book. He regarded the tall, broad-shouldered figure approaching the door with a bland stare. “That football player.”

  “Yep, that’s him.”

  “I guess you got this one,” Daryl said, seizing the opportunity to find a quiet corner with his latest literary passion.

  Jake marched in as if he belonged there. His attention fixed on her. On her glasses, to be precise. And he smiled, an appreciative slant to his mouth, nothing like the lupine grin he’d flashed that morning. His eyes darkened to ebony, the same hue as his immaculately pressed shirt and monochromatic tie. With his tightly creased gray trousers and buffed black shoes, he might have stepped off the cover of a magazine.

  “Good evening, Mr. Wilder.” She pressed an unadorned blue folder into his hands. “I’ve enclosed two copies of the promo script—it’s not long. Thirty seconds or so. You’ll also find directions to the studio and the name of the producer who’ll be working with you.”

  “Thanks.” He leafed through the packet, nodding to himself as he read over the copy. “This’ll work. Nothing too fancy.”

  “Of course.” She added an extra dollop of honey in her voice. “We wouldn’t want to tarnish your image.”

  “Ouch.” He closed the packet and centered his attention on her. “I deserved that. Still not happy about my sexy librarian comment?”

  “Actually, I suppose I should consider it a compliment.” Her smile came readily. No need to force it when she drank in his dark-chocolate gaze.

  “So, have I frightened you off, or are you willing to take a chance?”

  “That depends on what you’re proposing.”

  “The usual. Dinner. A drink or two.” His mouth slid into a lazy grin. “With any luck, second base.”

  “Hmmm, baseball references from a quarterback.”

  He shrugged. “With any luck, first down. Better?”

  “A definite improvement, but I predict you’ll get sacked before you gain any yardage.”

  “Should I take that as a yes?” He actually sounded hopeful.

  “To dinner. And the drink.”

  “Good enough.” Mischievous confidence danced in his eyes. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve heard of the quarterback sneak.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept. You are aware that doesn’t always work. The quarterback often winds up flat on the turf.”

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take. Can your assistant close tonight?”

  “That’s the plan. Guess I’m yours.” She paused to savor the surprise flickering over his features. “At least until dessert.”

  * * * * *

  Lady Antoinette’s boasted a French-trained chef, chic décor, and a waiting list that could have passed for a who’s who of Richmond. Bypassing the well-heeled crowd, Jake ushered Chelsea in through a side door. “Antoinette insists her friends use this entrance,” he explained. A willow of a woman perched on precariously high heels flitted toward them. Her arms went around Jake, enfolding him in an embrace usually reserved for conquering heroes returned from war. Releasing her hold, she took a step back. Her gaze washed over Chelsea.

  The smile in her eyes intensified. “I like this one.” She surveyed Chelsea from head to toe. “It’s about time you found a girl who didn’t look like she should prance around on some stage in Vegas.”

  “You always know how to greet a customer, Antoinette. Miss York owns that little bookstore on Fifth.” Jake bypassed comment on Antoinette’s pronouncement as he proceeded with the introductions. “I almost didn’t recognize the place. Chelsea’s transformed that old eyesore into a hell of a little shop.”

  “I’ll make a point of stopping by.” Antoinette captured his hands between her long, elegant fingers. “Come, I’ve reserved a wonderful table for the two of you.”

  Jake skillfully extricated himself from her grasp. His attention darted past Chelsea, his focus on something or someone just over her shoulder. “Just a moment.” Chelsea followed the path of his gaze. He trained a cold stare on the maître d’, who was at that moment ushering a soldier decked out in uniform and the fresh-faced woman at his side to a claustrophobia-inducing nook. Chelsea’s heart twisted as her eyes fell on the prosthetic that now took the place of the serviceman’s left hand.

  “Why the hell is he relegating them to that dark corner?” Jake kept his voice to a husky whisper. “That’s got to be the worst seating in the house.”

  Antoinette’s porcelain complexion tinted to crimson. “Business is good. We’re overflowing tonight.” Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “They’re lucky to get in at all.”

  A muscle worked in Jake’s jaw. His gaze wandered back to the couple. The soldier’s companion—the man’s bride, judging from the modest diamond on her finger—beamed with happiness despite the less-than-stellar accommodations.

  “Do me a favor, Antoinette. Have the maître d’ tell them there’s been a mistake. Give them our table. They deserve better than that little cave.”

  The owner’s brows lifted, but one look at Jake’s intent gaze and she seemed to melt. “Of course. Anything for you. If you’re able to wait a few minutes longer, I’ll find you another beautiful view.”

  He pointed to the small, isolated booth. ”We’ll take that one. God knows we could use the privacy.”

  Flashing Chelsea a look that said “lucky girl”, Antoinette signaled the maître d’ with one flick of her wrist. “I hadn’t considered that. I’ll have Paul take care of it.”

  “And have him bring their check to me.”

  “As usual, you prefer to remain anonymous?”

  “Just let them know it’s a small ‘thank you’ for his service.”

  “Very good.” Antoinette offered a thoughtful nod. “You realize this could get you some very good PR.”

  “Don’t need it or want it. Let’s do things my way.”

  “Of course. If you�
��ll excuse me—” With her tangerine skirt flaring around her ankles, Antoinette strode after the maître d’.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, Jake attempted what must have been his best effort at a sheepish grin. “I should have asked your opinion before making that move. We’ve gone from the best seat in the house to a dungeon.”

  He was as good an actor as he’d been a passer. His concern came across as impressively genuine. The man affected a humble, good-guy demeanor like a performer donned a costume.

  No harm letting him think his ploy had worked. She sidled nearer, just close enough to pick up the mingled scent of sandalwood aftershave and Jake. Her pulse fluttered, a little blip in her heart’s even rhythm. She pulled in a breath to calm herself. Precisely the wrong tactic. The earthy aroma flooded her senses. Damn pheromones. The pesky chemicals proved as effective a lure as any brew Bridget could concoct.

  She would be strong. Stronger than simple biology. Stronger than any counter-offense he might launch.

  Chelsea leaned closer, draped a hand over his forearm, and slipped off her glasses. Lowering the pitch of her voice to what she hoped sounded like a sultry femme fatale and not a hoarse frog, she steeled herself for battle and launched her first drive of the night.

  “A little privacy might be the just the thing.”

  * * * * *

  Once, when he was a kid on a field trip to see dusty relics in a cold gray museum, Jake had become fascinated by some unlucky prehistoric bug that had spent millions of years encased in amber. Mired in what must have been mighty appealing honey-brown resin, no doubt the hapless insect had struggled to free itself as it became hopelessly trapped. Damned if he didn’t feel the same way as he looked into Chelsea’s golden-brown eyes.

  “I certainly won’t be needing these during dinner,” she announced as she placed her glasses in a padded pink case and snapped it shut. “I only need them for distances. I’m sure you won’t be far away.”

  She’d known exactly what she was doing. With the glasses, she was beautiful. But without the filter of the lenses, the intelligence and spirit reflected in her eyes were downright breathtaking. What a damn shame arrows laced with poison lurked behind her inquisitive gaze.

  She employed those eyes like the weapons they were. “So, Jake, are good deeds a habit?” Was it his imagination, or had she actually fluttered those smoky charcoal lashes at him?

  He stared over his Pinot noir. “I’ve been very fortunate in my life. I don’t take that for granted. If I can show my appreciation for someone’s sacrifice or lend a helping hand, it feels good. The way I look at it, it’s the least I can do.”

  She leaned closer, resting her chin on her fist, her lips tilting into a smile Mona Lisa would have envied. “Why haven’t I read about this side of you? Your friend—Antoinette—she’s right, you know. You could reap some wonderful press off what you did tonight.”

  “I prefer to keep it low-key. It’s not like I’m adopting a dozen starving children or rebuilding a nation with my bare hands between movie shoots. Nothing I’ve ever done off the field is a big deal.”

  “But you could make it a big deal. Spin those acts of kindness into endorsements.”

  “At what cost? Do you think that soldier wants to be part of a publicity stunt? A lot of people are proud. They might accept a gift, a gesture, especially if they don’t see it coming. If it feels like charity, a man or woman with any sense of honor won’t want any part of it.”

  She blinked. Her gaze dropped to her half-eaten plate of fish. “I must say I’m impressed.” She sat up straight, the curve of her lips intensifying into an interrogator’s smile. “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.”

  “Not really. You asked a question. I answered it. Now, it’s my turn.”

  “Your turn?”

  Playing dumb was definitely not her strong suit. He’d go along with her game, if only to get to look at those beautiful eyes until she decided she’d had enough of the painfully forced flirtation.

  “My turn to ask you a question.”

  “Of course. Isn’t that the nature of conversation?”

  He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. She really wasn’t much of an actress. Disdain colored every sugar-laced word. “I’m not so sure the usual rules apply.”

  She shifted in her seat, moving her hands to curl around the stem of her barely touched wineglass. She took a ladylike sip, and then her lips formed a prim, kissable-as-hell bow.

  “Very well. What would you like to know?”

  “Why did you agree to go out with me tonight?”

  She took another, slightly less dainty sip. “To get to know you better. Isn’t that why people agree to meet over good food and good wine?”

  Jesus, she sounded like a commercial for some chain restaurant. “With any other woman, I’d agree.”

  Her business face fell into place like a mask. “We’ve accomplished quite a bit tonight. I feel confident the promo session and your appearance at the store will be extremely successful.” Her expression softened, her eyes riveted on his mouth. “I wasn’t lying. I really do want to get to know you better.”

  Her voice was throaty and sexy and inviting. Too bad the seductive tone seemed as out of sync with the look in her eyes as the dubbing on the seventies kung fu movies his dad watched on cable.

  “Why?”

  She folded her hands, one on top of the other. “I’m curious about you—curious about Jake Wilder, the man, not Jake Wilder, the football star.”

  The teasing tilt of her mouth proved a powerful lure. What he wouldn’t give to kiss away the doubts. His cock hardened, drawing the fabric of his trousers taut. Christ, if she kept looking at him like that, he might just have to ignore that meddling voice in his head that barked words of caution every time she smiled.

  Before his lust-addled brain could formulate a reply that wouldn’t make him sound like an egotistical ass, she reached over and traced a single fingertip over the ridges of his knuckles, scrolling small circles on the back of his hand. Desire shot through him like electric currents from his fingers to his spine. Whatever Chelsea was up to, she was damn good at making his body desperately want to overrule the ever-dimming voice of reason.

  “I told you I was yours until dessert. Turns out I don’t have much of a sweet tooth tonight and I’ve no worries of losing my glass slipper at midnight.” Those amber irises looked straight into his soul. “So, what do you say? Shall we continue this conversation somewhere else? Your place, perhaps?”

  “My place?” He sounded like a green high-school kid stunned to find out a girl wanted to make out with him.

  “Café Seven.” She regarded him with a look that said any other setting—such as his condo—was beyond the realm of possibility. “I trust you could show me an insider’s view.”

  A vision of the leather couch in his private office flashed in his thoughts. If he was any harder, he’d need to buy time to reduce the ever-growing bulge in his trousers. He forced an image into his brain, a mental picture so vile, so repulsive, he doubted any erection could withstand its interference. His former teammate’s stint on a celebrity dance competition had been a success in the eyes of many, but the sight of the human grizzly bear spilling out of a red sequined matador’s jacket, spandex pants and shiny black boots was the stuff of nightmares.

  He lifted his glass and tried not to swill it down. He tilted the crystal and took a dignified draught. “You’re sure you won’t turn into a pumpkin on me?”

  She cocked her head as if he’d sprouted a dunce cap in place of hair. “Cinderella didn’t turn into a pumpkin.”

  Christ, now she was correcting his interpretation of fairy tales. If he had any sense, he’d use his early-morning run as an excuse to end the evening. After a few beers, he could content himself with knowing he’d dodged an arrow or two. If only she didn’t look at him as if she wanted to strip him naked between volleys.

  He had to find out if the promise in her sultry voice was real. No mat
ter how hot and cold she ran, no matter that she likely viewed him as a dumb jock with money to burn, no matter that she actually referenced goddamn Cinderella in her conversation, he had to know if he had a chance with her.

  “That’s a relief. All these years I thought the prince had a thing for jack-o-lanterns.” He grinned, certain he looked more idiotic with each passing moment. He was nervous. Actually nervous. Him. The king of the tabloid wolves. “Café Seven is yours for the night.”

  Just as he was.

  Chapter Five

  Oh my!

  Jake eyed her beneath hooded lids.

  He’d been caught in her snare.

  But would she join him in the trap?

  Panic raced through Chelsea’s veins. She was out of her depth with this man, and she knew it. Potion or not, she needed the shallow end of the pool and a pair of floaties, not the Atlantic.

  She came to her feet. Surged, really. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to powder my nose.”

  His brows arched. Heat spread from her throat clear to her forehead. Powder my nose. I sound like my grandmother.

  He pointed to the corridor behind them. “Right down the hall. Would you like me to escort you?”

  She gave her head a shake, a little too quick and a little too adamant. “No, thank you. I can find it.”

  Whirling around, she set off at breakneck speed. Had he noticed the flush on her cheeks? Did he have any idea what he did to her when he looked at her…like…like that? Look wasn’t even the right word for it. Ravenous. Insatiable. Stripped bare. Romance novel words flooded her brain. She nearly looked down to make sure her clothes hadn’t disappeared. She was a witch, for crying out loud, but she felt like running out the back calling, “Auntie Em, Auntie Em!”

  She barreled through the door, nearly slamming into a tightly coiffed matron. Once inside, she marched to the mirror and pressed her palms to either side of the glass.